


Song of the Stars

by XiuChen4Ever



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, And Dead Characters, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Fictional Religion & Theology, M/M, Reluctant Chosen One, but don't worry, epic fantasy, far north, musical themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 112,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23722369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XiuChen4Ever/pseuds/XiuChen4Ever
Summary: Jongdae was born to sing at the temple.  He never thought he’d ever leave, much less journey to the ends of the earth.Minseok is tasked with escorting the dead, yet somehow he finds himself accompanying the living.It’s difficult to predict what the Resonance will require of anyone, but no one expects to be asked to save the world.
Relationships: Kim Jongdae | Chen/Kim Minseok | Xiumin
Comments: 94
Kudos: 131
Collections: SnowSpark Fest Round One





	1. Anacrusis

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SnowSpark fest, prompt #52.
> 
> "Bonus points for a vast fantasy world," the prompt said. Well, I hope 112k of epic world-saving journey is vast enough for your tastes, dear prompter! I was hooked as soon as I read the prompt, and though it didn't turn out exactly how I originally planned I'm still proud to present it to you.
> 
> Special thanks to those who looked it over for me--I love and appreciate each of you!

# Anacrusis  
࿄

_ “The hour before dawn is the coldest, _ _  
_ _ But stars only shine in the dark. _ _  
_ _ In the bleak, life must ring out the boldest. _ _  
_ _ Let nothing extinguish the spark!” _

_ “No, _ Jongdae—how many times must I tell you? You  _ cannot _ slide from  _ mi  _ to  _ do  _ in this passage, each note must be hit  _ cleanly.” _

“But Dad, it sounds better this way—smoother, more sweeping.”

Jongdae’s father, Grand High Cantor of the Supreme Resonance, sets gentle hands on his youngest son’s shoulders. His handsome face is always lined with concern, but Jongdae supposes that comes with the responsibility of heading the Grand Temple of the Tongues. He looks at Jongdae with eyes that always seem to see a person’s soul, dark and serious, a trait he’d passed to his youngest son along with thick, black hair and a strong, clear voice.

“Perhaps,” his father says. “But the point of the hymns is not to sound nice. It’s to glorify the Resonance. Precision, not interpretation, is what’s required.”

“Oh, but surely the Resonance is not that picky. I mean, you always say that Resonance might exist in a baby’s cry as much as in a grand symphonic.” 

Jongdae’s voice echoes gently through the massive naos built around the miraculous everburning blue flames for which the temple's named. The creamy polished marble has been carefully tuned, as have the bells in the cote above, to be as resonant as possible, an amplifier of the hope and gratitude the Tongues bring to the hard, cold world.

His father nods. “It is true that there may be Resonance in any earnest sound. And your coloratura is beautiful, my son. But you’re not a simple cantor, you are the Tenor. You are the foundation, my boy. You must be solid and steady.”

Jongdae's unable to maintain his scowl in the face of his father’s earnest gaze. “I know, Dad. But I get a little tired of the holy hymns sometimes. I want to create—to sing my own Resonance into the world.”

“So you shall,” his father says, squeezing his shoulders. “When you are Grand High Cantor, you’ll train a new Tenor, and then you’ll be free to sing your own song. But we must all serve the Resonance before we indulge ourselves, and this is the duty the Resonance has set for you.”

Nodding in resignation, Jongdae swallows down the bitterness that wishes it were his brother, Jongdeok, who’d been born with perfect pitch instead of him. But if he had, Jongdae would not have been born at all. 

Kim Junmyeon had been a man of duty even before he’d become Grand High Cantor, marrying a woman with a capable singing voice herself in the deliberate hope of producing his successor by parentage rather than searching all of Elyxion for a suitable apprentice. By the time their firstborn son had reached five years old, it was clear that he was gifted in areas other than vocal performance, so they’d tried again. 

Their second-born was a daughter, and while his parents delight in Jihyo, women simply do not have a wide enough vocal range. His sister had grown into a capable Treble, leading the hymns with her sweeping soprano. But his parents had conceived a third child as soon as she was weaned, because the Resonance required a Tenor.

Jongdae was genuinely born for this. 

And mostly he enjoys it, at least more than he enjoys maintaining the temple’s ring of bells or memorizing the liturgies. But either of those is still better than his older brother’s calling. Jongdae shivers at the thought of sending off the silenced, giving the frozen bodies of the dead to the temple’s eternal flames.

It’s a necessary duty and an honorable one, and Jongdae understands why his reserved, introverted brother is content to spend countless hours in prayer beneath the temple, preparing the silenced brought from near and far to be consecrated and consigned to the Tongues of Life. The Tongues sing their own beautiful, eerie song as they transform frozen flesh into hot energy, closing the circle, death feeding life. The dancing blue flames of the earth are an echo of those in the sky, and thus are the spirits of the dead freed to dance across the heavens in that undulating, shimmering spectrum that is the silent song of the stars.

But Jongdae's ultimately glad he’s singing the Hymns of the Resonance during the light of day instead of whispering the sacraments of the dead in the dark of night. He’s not truly envious of his brother. Nor does he truly blame his father for training him so carefully to take his place. His mother is a paragon and Jongdae's ready to fight anyone who even implies otherwise. It’s Jongdae’s sister who is the target of most of his resentment.

It’s not that he has no love for Jihyo. They’re only a year and a half apart and had grown up together, much closer with each other than either are with the brother more than six years their senior. They had been partners in mischief as children, and they’d both loved the music their parents had taught them, training them both to sing peace and harmony into the hearts of all those who sought Resonance in their own lives.

Not until Jongdae’s voice had settled post-puberty had his training as Tenor truly intensified. Now that he’s capable of producing the exact pitches required by the ancient hymns, he’s required to practice them for hours each day. Jihyo still has to practice, too, but not nearly for as long. She’s free to socialize and enjoy herself far more than Jongdae is, and she truly loves rubbing it in like the brat she is.

So Jongdae’s still rubbing thrice-blessed sheepsfoot oil into the sacred bronze of the bells when Jihyo bounces up the ladder into the bellcote and sprawls over a pile of thick walrus-hide rope. It’s freezing at the top of the belltower, all four sides open to the winter air. Jongdae had started his task wearing a fleecy sheepskin parka, only shedding it when the vigorous movements warmed him overmuch. But Jihyo’s only wearing a simple woolen shift, cheeks flushed, long dark hair tangled.

“Clappers, those Snow Walkers are such eager lovers! I’ll be feeling that last romp for a solid  _ week.” _

“Gross,” Jongdae whines. “Why are you like this to me?”

“Because it’s fun to rub up on a handsome stranger, ChenChen. Perhaps if you stopped whining long enough, you could get someone to rub up on you.”

“When would I have the time to visit the lychrow?” Jongdae rubs the shoulder of the third bell more firmly than necessary to remove any as-yet invisible corrosion caused by the salty sea air. “And I’d not bother even if I did have time—I’ll not have my sister’s leavings.”

Jihyo’s laugh rings through the bellcote. “I’ve not had  _ all _ of them, and there are always new arrivals to replace the ones that head back out. An absolutely gorgeous Walker came in yesterday, but when I brought him his meal and offered dessert, he turned me down. He said he prefers boys—must have spent too many nights staying warm with his fellows. But at least you could have  _ him  _ for certain knowing he’s not had me.”

Jongdae’s not sure what face he’s making at his sister’s horrifying speech, but it sends her into peals and peals of laughter. “What if I prefer girls?” he asks, inverting the bell so he can rub oil on the clapper.

His sister watches him work with an arched brow. “Based on all your training, I’d say you’d be much better at pleasing a boy.”

Suddenly aware of exactly the motion he’s making, rag wrapped around the clapper’s rigid shaft, Jongdae feels his face heat. “I could please a girl. But these days I’ve hardly time to even please myself. All I do is rehearse. I had to beg Dad to let me come up here and oil the bells, and you know I hate doing this.”

“Aww, poor baby,” Jihyo coos. “But the solstice grand symphonic is only a day away, and Dad should ease up for a bit after that. We could visit the lychrow  _ together.” _

“No way,” Jongdae says firmly. “Not even if we were twins would we be close enough to share.”

“Gross.” Jongdae needn’t even look up from his work to see Jihyo’s scrunched nose and protruding tongue. “I only meant we could walk over together. You could help me serve dinner. And then you might see if you’re the kind of boy picky Snow Walkers like. He’s stunningly handsome, Jongdae.”

“I still feel weird about propositioning the same guy you did. Are there any girls?”

“Not this time.”

Jongdae’s unsurprised (and a little bit relieved). Snow Walking is a physically demanding job, and while there are women who do join the ranks of those that escort the dead along the lychways to the temple, they’re even more uncanny than the men who do the same.

“Then I guess I’ll be entertaining myself after the symphonic,” Jongdae says, feigning disappointment. 

Jihyo again smirks at the way Jongdae’s oiling up the clapper. “Oh, I’m sure you will.”

# ࿄

The Grand Temple of the Tongues is always an awe-inspiring sight at twilight. There’s a lot of twilight these days, the dead of winter being stingy with daylight. Not as stingy as further north, Jongdae’s told, where the sun never manages to peek over the horizon during winter’s darkest days. But on the southern tip of Elyxion, their scant hours of winter sun dissolve into a long and showy sunset, the marble echoing the pinkish glow of the sky while the Tongues of Life become ever more visible from a distance. That's how the ancestors came to Elyxion in the first place, in seven huge carts without wheels or runners called  _ ships _ that could somehow cross the ever-shifting slush of the seawater. 

The legends say the Tongues had been burning even then, and the ancestors had seen the blue flames calling them after a storm had blown their ships farther north than anyone had ever been. The storm would’ve destroyed them without the Resonance, but the ancestors are said to have known secrets now lost. They had supposedly sung the wind and waves into submission over several days and had been at the end of food and water reserves when their lookout had spied the Tongues in the distance.

Wet and cold and fleeing the shadows of the massively violent conflict that had destroyed the ancient homeland, the ancestors had used the bell fitted on each ship to call to each other, to stay together as they’d made their way to this miraculous shore. They’d huddled around the Tongues for warmth, used them to boil snow into clean water, to cook their food. When the winter wolves had come prowling, the fire had kept them at a wary distance and lit the night well enough to reveal skulking tundra cats that would’ve finished what the storm had started.

The sea had given them up to eternal flames rippling blue like water, life surrendering to life. The Resonance granted them the bounty of the ocean and the security of the fire-kissed shore, and a village had sprung up, built at first from the remnants of the ships and later from quarried stone. It had become a thriving town, named Dominari after the lead ship since the Tongues once lead their entire lives.

Though humanity has settled all around Elyxion, no longer so directly dependent on the Tongues to survive, they still revere that which had first granted them salvation. They’d built a temple around the fissure from which the Tongues emerge, a sturdy tower as a monument above the miraculous blue flames. They’d hung the ships’ bells in the tower, instruments of alarm set to ringing Resonant, rejoicing for a new life in the land they’d named after a legendary paradise, the Isle of the Blessed, said to lie at the edge of the world.

The temple had grown in grandeur along with the people’s prosperity. As they’d spread over Elyxion to start new settlements near crucial resources, they’d taken the Resonance with them in the form of the bells. The original seven ships now have legacies in the form of towns, each with an ancient bell as the highest tone in their temple’s ring.

Dominari’s bell still rings out from its home halfway up the rocky ridge to the north of the town that shelters it from the harshest of the glacial winds. There’s solid rock at the temple’s back, but the views to east and west are clear, and sunset paints snow and stone with bronze and blush as the naos fills with people.

It's a strange feeling to know that all around Elyxion, local temples are filling as well. Not only the seven big settlements but the smaller ones as well, each little hamlet and village that shelters life on the frosty Isle of the Blessed. None of the others house a flame, but they all have bells and cantors, their own Tenors and Trebles ready to perform the same ritual to the Resonance.

The longest night of the year is very long indeed, long enough to ring a full peal of 5,040 changes three times, thrice blessing winter’s wane. The bellringers each have their partner waiting at their side to take over when the fatigue in shoulders, biceps, and thighs becomes too much. Jongdae's usually among their number, tolling the largest of the temple’s ring of seven bells. He prides himself on being able to do so for six hours straight before he needs to be spelled. 

But tonight, he’s singing his first cancion as Tenor, finally meeting his father’s exacting standards enough to anchor the Symphonic alone. For the first time, the Soundbow, the wide bronze chain of office that usually encircles the Grand High Cantor’s neck, is instead locked around the throat of his youngest son. So it’s oldest son Jongdeok who’ll start the pull in Jongdae’s stead, anchoring the peal until the Tenor might stop being the center of attention and return to his bellrope. Then he and his big brother will trade off, working together through the twenty-hour night to call the sun back into the sky, encouraging it to once again begin to lengthen the time it graces the frozen face of the world with its life-giving rays.

Jongdae’s heart is racing as he steps up to the pulpit, and as usual, he’s more than a little awed when the massive crowd falls into silence at the raising of his hand. He’s merely Jongdae, High Cantor’s son, youngest child, mama’s boy. But he’s also the Tenor, foundation of the Resonance, born for this task and trained with diligence. 

All of Dominari’s people have crowded around the Tongues of Life that burn eternally in the center of the sanctuary to warm their hearts and bodies during the frigid dark of the longest night. And to hear the Tenor sing the Song of Hope, note-perfect, while the Treble adds a descant and the chorale fills out the refrain.

Just as the last of the light disappears from the sky, Jongdeok sounds the lowest bell once, letting the reverberations linger in the air. Unease reverberates through Jongdae’s bones along with it, but a heartbeat later, he begins to sing.

_ Our hope is the first and the last, _ _  
_ _ The key to the tone of belief. _ _  
_ _ The bridge between present and past, _ _  
_ _ Conducts us to future relief. _

_ Though lover and loved may decease, _ _  
_ _ True love shall always survive. _ __  
_ And the world shall be at peace, _ _  
_ __ As long as hope’s spark is alive!

Halfway through the last refrain, the sanctuary is plunged into absolute darkness. Jongdae blinks, voice faltering, as he tries to make sense of the unfathomable. 

The Tongues of Life are gone. The eternal flames have gone out. 

There are gasps of surprise, then whimpers of alarm. Then the darkness starts hissing in dissonance all around them, and that’s when the screams begin in earnest.

The temple shakes, adding the sounds of falling stone and human agony to the mix. Jongdae's thrown from the pulpit when there’s a massive impact to his right, close enough that he feels the breeze from the falling object against his skin a split second before the rush of air and debris that sends him flying.

“Dad!” he yells. His father had been standing proudly at his side. “Mom? Jongdeok—Jihyo!” 

The only answer is screaming, cries and shrieks both human and otherworldly.

More concussions of what sounds like stone on stone. The temple is shaking apart. It’s falling down, crushing those who sheltered within it. In a panic, Jongdae crawls, bumping into people, stone, wetness that is a hot, sticky contrast to the chill of the marble.

Jongdae swallows down a sob. He must get out. Which way is out?

As if in answer, an eerie pale purple glow appears in the sea of darkness, followed by another and another. Lychlights, the spheres of encapsulated sea shimmer that top a Snow Walker’s ivory staff, being uncovered by the escorts of the silenced. They bob for only a moment before the hissing increases. There are more yells, more screams, the shattering of glass, and the lychlights disappear.

But the scant light was enough for Jongdae to realize where he is. And once oriented, Jongdae knows exactly how to move through the temple he grew up in. The floor is a mass of writhing forms but Jongdae’s panic sends him scrambling toward the closest archway, his screams frozen in his throat.

He squeaks when another falling chunk of architecture lands with a way-too-squishy thud. Then he must be outside, rough flagstones instead of polished marble beneath his hands and knees. It’s still way too dark, moon and stars nowhere to be seen. He can see no lanterns from the town below, no phosphorescence in the ocean’s slush, no light of any kind from anywhere.

Behind him, it is silent. All around him, it is dark.

“Spectrum, save us!” Jongdae swears, despair smothering his words.

An icy violet light appears suspended in front of him, just in time to keep him from crawling straight into the kneecaps of a fur-clad figure.

Jongdae looks up to see lychlight reflecting corpse-pale from an unfamiliar face enshrouded by a hood.

“This way, Tenor,” the Snow Walker says, extending his staff toward the lychrow. 

“You’ve a light!” Jongdae pants. “Please, I need to go back—my family! I need to see—”

“Seeing will change nothing. Light may call the dark. Your family would wish your survival. Disappoint them not.”

Jongdae opens his mouth but his discordant thoughts jam up instead of tumbling out. The Snow Walker huffs, reaches down, and grabs the front of Jongdae’s ceremonial robes. Then the lychlight disappears as Jongdae's hauled to his feet and pulled along, stumbling beside this man whose movements are as silent as those he escorts.

When the lychlight next appears, Jongdae's in one of the lychrow sleeping cells and the Snow Walker is thrusting a shaggy ox-pelt parka at him.

“Dress,” he instructs, pulling more clothing from a rucksack. He lays out matching ox-pelt trousers, thick wool socks, and sturdy fur-lined boots on the narrow bed. “Hurry.”

Suddenly realizing he’s shivering, Jongdae obeys. It’s cold tonight; colder than he’s ever felt and it seeps into his bones as the fire of panic fades. He dives for the heavy outerwear, reaching for it with shaking fingers.

As soon as Jongdae starts to move, the Snow Walker exits the tiny chamber. He leaves his staff behind, propped in a corner, so Jongdae manages not to renew his panic. Instead, he pulls on the too-large clothing over the robes he’s already wearing, tying the boots as tightly as possible to keep them from sliding off.

The Snow Walker returns, similarly dressed, rucksack on his shoulders, small pot in one hand, and frowns at Jongdae’s feet.

“Blisters are better than frostbite,” he states, smearing lanolin from the pot in two thick circles around Jongdae’s eyes before efficiently wrapping a thick woolen scarf around Jongdae’s neck and face. He raises the hood of Jongdae’s parka, securing it against the wind before grabbing his staff and Jongdae’s arm. 

Then the lychlight disappears again and Jongdae's once more tugged along in the dark. It’s so cold it hurts to breathe too quickly, air needing to be warmed as it’s drawn through the scarf before it’s safe for tender lungs. The enforced slow breaths dull Jongdae’s panic further, the heat of exertion replacing that of fear.

He staggers and stumbles for what must be hours before he’s sure he’s actually seeing faint stars above him rather than imagining them. Slowly, the body beside him becomes a silhouette against the sky, and when Jongdae looks at the ground instead of the Snow Walker, he’s able to pick out the surface just enough to avoid tripping over the larger stones in his path.

They’re on a lychway. Of course they are. They’re moving away from the Grand Temple—they’d of course not be moving toward it. But they could be on any of the lychways running toward any of the settlements that are too frozen to bury their dead, where fuel is too precious to waste on cremation, where huge predators prowl the bleak, able to rip apart cairns and feast on what’s inside. 

So as not to delay or entangle the spirits of the silenced, the roads of the dead run straight through the bleak, crossing the great glacier that dominates Elyxion rather than following the wider, safer roads of the living, the ones that travel around the less-icy edges of the land before it meets the frosted sea. And the bleak is a directionless expanse of treacherous ice, shaped by wind and snow into an ever-changing, never-hospitable landscape. In the absence of the sun or moon, with the stars barely visible, there’s no way for Jongdae to orient himself at all.

“Where are you taking me?” Jongdae manages to ask, teeth chattering even though the vigorous pace has him sweating inside the parka. 

“Away from death,” the Snow Walker answers. 

This fails to indicate their destination at all but it still reassures Jongdae. It seems a little backward for a Snow Walker to escort the living, but Jongdae has no space in his head for philosophy. He has to focus on putting one foot down, then lifting the other and placing it in front of the first. This is all he allows himself to think about, making it fill his head entirely. 

He cannot think about the screams in the temple. The sounds of falling stone hitting the marble floor. Or hitting anything else. The shrieking hisses that were the darkness. The dark crusting on his hands. The way he had to peel the wet fabric of his robes away from his legs in order to stuff them into the ox-pelt trousers.

Soon all thoughts, including those related to walking, are driven from his skull. Because the Snow Walker pulls the scarf down from his mouth and pinches his full lower lip into a fold between mittened fingers and thumb. He whistles, pitch sharp and rising. And then a snowdrift moves.

It shakes itself, then stalks over, resolving into the biggest animal Jongdae has ever seen. It’s bigger than the shaggy reindeer that draw heavy wagons full of pilgrims and supplies to pay homage to the Tongues of life for weddings, naming days, and other auspicious events. But it’s shaped rather like the thick-furred temple cats that keep rodents out of their food stores. Well, except for the fangs that curve down from the beast’s upper lip, half as long as walrus tusks but looking ten times as sharp.

Jongdae has nothing left to be terrified with. So he only watches numbly as the massive feline ambles over, snuffles at each of them, then saunters off ahead, short, stubby tail held high. The Snow Walker follows, still hauling Jongdae along by his elbow. Jongdae does his best to keep up the pace but his limbs feel like stone, his body is shaky, his head is pounding.

“Sorry,” he mumbles when his knees give out and the frozen track rushes up to meet him.

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾

Minseok purses his lips as he catches the unconscious boy before he hits the ground. He supposes he should be impressed with how far the kid had managed to go before collapsing, considering what had happened at the Grand Temple.

They’re not far enough toward Yon for Minseok’s liking, but he’s not going to carry the boy or haul him on a makeshift sledge. The lychways are meant to be walked by the living—passive travel is reserved for the dead. There's no telling what might be lured if the singer masquerades as silenced.

Sighing, Minseok whistles for Tan, the rising note of summoning, then the falling note of impending camp. The massive tundra cat materializes silently out of the darkness, blessed with wide, fluffy paws that muffle her steps and aurora-green eyes that allow her to find her way in the near-black much better than any other living thing. 

It’s the sharing of this last trait that Minseok values more than her wicked claws and massive fangs—every Snow Walker is given a companion to keep them warm and defend the silenced from the predators of the bleak, and many favor the easily-trained winter wolves or the always-foraging snow bears. But Minseok had cared not if his companion would do tricks for his amusement or find him a cache of cloudberries. Instead, Minseok sought to ensure he’d never be lost in the unforgiving bleak, and Tan, while highly independent, adores her master. He’d raised her from a kitten and spoiled her more than a little. She may not obey his every whim, but she’d never abandon him or lead him astray.

Minseok lowers the exhausted boy to the ground as Tan prowls over, lowering and lifting her head as if to locate the expected minim, the bowed-out spots along the lychway where Walkers weary between lychgates generally camp. They’re nowhere near such a spot, but Minseok knows better than to leave the lychway. Snow Walkers and their companions are far from the only things that roam the bleak, and Minseok has had more than enough of mortal peril.

Anxious to get to the proper shelter of the next lychgate, Minseok swallows his impatience. He unrolls the fleece-lined seal pelt bedroll tied to his pack and lays the kid on it, then quickly paces off a tight circle around the three living creatures paused along the path of the dead. He chants the usual wards as he does so, enclosing them in what he hopes is a shield against what slinks in the dark.

Then he returns to the boy, stripping him out of the too-large travelling gear he’d borrowed from whoever his neighbor had been in the temple lychrow. Chances are they’d not be needing it—Minseok suspects the boy and himself are the only two that escaped being swallowed up when the darkness had coalesced and the Tongues of Life were snuffed.

But the thick clothes only help if the body within is generating its own heat, and the traumatized kid is well beyond that, body shutting down with shock. So Minseok peels off the boy’s bloody robes, using a clean corner and some melted snow to scrub some of the blood from his hands and knees. He’d normally take off any metal jewelry that’d conduct cold from air to skin, but the thick bronze filigree around his neck seems both seamless and ceremonial. Minseok knows better than to mess with what he has no understanding of, so he merely strips off his own clothes, stuffing all but the ruined robe down into the foot of the bedroll before climbing in beside the kid.

Wincing, Minseok wraps himself around the boy and endures the chilled flesh against his own. He clucks to Tan, who settles half on top of them, letting Minseok drape the open side of the bedroll over her back. With Minseok’s skin pressed against his back and Tan’s fur at his front, the kid should warm up enough to wake soon. Then Minseok can feed him—a few blocks of pemmican are all Minseok has in his pack, having not stopped at the lychgate to help himself to the offerings left for Snow Walkers before they’d fled. The cakes of meat, berries, and fat will do for now, though it’ll be a hungry walk to the next gate with two people chewing through the supply.

Minseok hums low in his chest, the warming thrum taught to all Snow Walkers early in their training. The heat spreads through his body, but it’s not himself Minseok’s trying to warm. It’s unpleasant, almost nauseating, to feel his own bones vibrating within him, especially after what had driven him from the temple. Later, he’ll be ravenous and will have to endure that in favor of giving most of his limited food to the boy. But a Snow Walker’s life is one of sacrifice, and this is evidently one more onus to be endured in silence.

It’s not long before the kid is shivering against him, a good sign that the body is trying to warm itself. It means Minseok can let the thrum die away, opening his eyes as the unnatural sensation resolves into lingering soreness in his head, chest, and limbs. But the heated limbs wrapped around the boy suddenly serve another purpose as he startles, struggles, and squeaks against the palm Minseok presses over his mouth. The kid is nowhere near as well-built as Minseok is after years of carrying a heavy pack and hauling the silenced over frozen ground, but he’s muscled well over shoulders, arms, and thighs despite his slender waist. So it’s more than a casual amount of effort that’s required to restrain the panicking boy.

“Be still, Tenor,” Minseok murmurs. “You are unharmed.”

The boy goes limp in his arms and Minseok removes his hand, feeling the shallow, shuddering breaths against his chest.

“My family,” the kid sobs.

“I’m deeply sorry for your loss. Their notes in the harmony shall be missed.” 

Minseok recites the words almost automatically, feeling, as he always does, that they’re no real comfort. In an attempt to give the boy space for his grief, Minseok detangles his limbs now that he’s relatively sure the kid’s not going to flail against Tan, irking the important source of warmth into lying somewhere less disturbing. But the boy clings to his arms when he tries to let go, so Minseok simply holds the kid and lets him sob. Better for the tears to fall now, in this warm cocoon, than freeze on the cheeks while walking through the bleak.

He cries for a mere handful of moments. But the boy is still a bit chilled against Minseok’s chest, so he tamps down his impatience and lies there lending his heat a while longer, listening to sniffles in the dark.

“What happened?” the kid asks eventually, voice hardly more than a whisper. “Why did the flames go out? What was all that noise? Why did the temple collapse?”

“I know not,” Minseok states. He has some suspicions, but no explanation he could offer would soothe the boy, anyway. 

“Where are we?” the kid whispers. “Is it still night?”

“For hours yet. We’re in the bleak—we should get moving again. It’s risky to stop for too long.”

“I need to go back. I should’ve never left—”

“To go back is to die. Your duty is to live.”

“Why me? Why not my father? He’d have been able to save others, or—”

“A song cannot be unsung,” Minseok states firmly. The kid would make himself crazy by dwelling on hypotheticals. “A conductor may only shape the future, not the past.” 

“I’ve no future without my family.”

“The Resonance disagrees, seeing as you were set at my feet. I’m a Snow Walker, so I must walk my charges to their destination. Though my present charge is living, my duty is the same.”

“And where's my destination?”

“Yon,” Minseok says. “But it’s far from here and I know not if death follows behind us. Dress so we can go—our clothes have been warming at our feet.”

Evidently used to following orders, the boy does as asked, movements mindless. Without even looking for his robe, he wordlessly pulls on the spare lambskin breeches and double-knit sweater Minseok hands him before tugging the insulating outerwear back on.

The boy suddenly hisses, the sound sharp in the dark of their semi-shelter. It’s the work of an instant to tug the soft leather cover from the end of the staff lying beside them. 

“What is it? Are you hurt?”

The icy glow limns the boy’s wince. “Just blisters. I’ll be fine.”

Minseok frowns. He’d known the boots would likely be too big, but the boy’s feet are ridiculously tiny. They’ll never make it to Yon like this. They’ll be lucky even to make it to the next lychgate.

“Lean against Tan and give me your foot.” There’s not much room to maneuver, but Minseok has managed in far tighter spots.

“Tan?”

“My tundra cat. Or did you think boulders had fur now?”

The boy’s double-take at the end support of their tiny lean-to and subsequent stifled yelp would be hilarious under other circumstances. As it is, Minseok still has to swallow a smile.

“Nice kitty?” the boy says, tentatively patting Tan’s thickly-furred back before gingerly leaning against it, giving Minseok just enough room to lay on his belly and address those tiny feet.

“She’ll not harm you unless you mean us harm,” Minseok says. 

The boy says nothing to that, merely holding stock still for Minseok to drain the blisters with a bone needle and wrap the feet with strips of thin sueded leather in such a way as to prevent the already-tender skin from rubbing further. Then he hands him two pairs of thick woolen socks and Minseok’s own boots, still a little big but much closer in size than the ones he’d been wearing.

“But now you’ll get blisters,” the boy protests, lower lip jutting out. It makes him look very much the vulnerable child.

“I’ll not,” Minseok assures him. 

He wraps his feet preemptively, then pulls on two layers of socks himself before tugging his boots on and lacing them up. A quiet curse draws Minseok’s attention back to the boy who is frowning at his own laces.

Suppressing a sigh, Minseok moves the incompetent fingers away and laces and ties the boots himself. He rubs more lanolin over the exposed skin of the boy’s face and tightens his hood close around his eyes. Then he hands the boy some pemmican before re-covering the lychlight and tugging the bedroll from Tan’s back, revealing a starlight-dusted landscape.

“Eat that slowly as we walk.”

“I’m more thirsty than anything,” the boy says.

Minseok gestures expansively. “Help yourself to as much snow as you like.”

“Oh. Right.”

The boy wanders off to select his handful of hydration and Minseok makes quick work of repacking their supplies. He hesitates when he sees the bloody robes now frozen to the ground, lifting his eyes to the small figure forlornly digging at a snowbank. With a sigh, Minseok tugs the robes up from the ground, folding them to keep the blood concealed away from anything else, and tucks them in his pack. It’s not like he has no room—half the clothes are missing, being worn by his living charge. And he doubts the wisdom of leaving blood along a lychway—Minseok does not pretend to know all the truths of the world and would rather not court misfortune. 

Minseok has seen the dark move, seen shadows trailing him along the lychways until Tan harried them away. They always seemed sad rather than aggressive, only appearing in ones or twos, leaving Minseok unsure if it’s the same creeping darkness that had felled the temple or if something entirely different had snuffed the Tongues of Life and feasted in the dark. 

Whatever it was, Minseok's certain that his training is inadequate to protect against that type of darkness. He was taught to defend himself from the waste’s predators and taught to stay on the path regardless of what he may see or hear nearby. He’s seen enough to know that he’s not seen everything, so leaving the bloody robes behind is not an option even if the boy seems not to want them anymore.

“Come, Tenor,” Minseok calls when his rucksack is settled on his shoulders. If the kid holds up, they may yet see the lychgate of Rumblefield by mid-morning.

“I’m no Tenor,” the boy says, dark eyes vacant. “Not anymore. There's no song left in me.”

“Then how should I address you?” Minseok asks, realizing he probably should’ve asked long before. His travel companions have either been the nameless dead or his fellow Walkers, almost all of whom he’d already known.

“I’m just Chen,” the kid mumbles.

Minseok blinks. “You’ve no proper name?” 

The harshness of life on Elyxion means far too many of the silenced Minseok escorts are achingly small. And names are powerful things, passed down from ancestors or chosen to match a person’s temperament or talents, to reflect a parent’s wishes for their precious child. Hence, many parents choose to call their infants by a cradle-name, short and simple, so if the child is silenced before adolescence, they’re not forced to choose between two inauspicious choices—naming a subsequent child after their deceased sibling, as if one directly replaces the other, or of not passing the family name down at all. 

But the boy—Chen?—gives no answer. He merely chews alternately on pemmican and snowball, doing a decent job of keeping up once Minseok shortens his strides.

“I’m Minseok,” he introduces anyway.

This at least gets a reaction. “Oh. I’m sorry. I’d have asked for your name if I’d known you were allowed to tell me.”

Minseok casts confused eyes to the side. “Why would that be forbidden?”

“Um. Well, you’re all very quiet and mysterious and I’d never actually talked with a Walker before you? And my sister—” Chen pauses, swallows. “My sister visited the lychrow all the time and never mentioned any names, though I know she, er, got familiar with many.” He winces, then casts repeated sidelong glances at Minseok as they make their way along the well-worn track.

This awkward explanation makes Minseok suppress a snort. He’d met Chen’s sister briefly when she’d delivered a hot meal, Minseok’s favorite part of resting at the Grand Temple. She’d offered another kind of heat, too, but not her name, so he’d not bothered to offer his, either.

“I was not ‘familiar’ with your sister,” he says, thinking it prudent to omit that the slim-but-strong figure he’d had in his arms earlier was much more to his tastes. Or rather,  _ would  _ be under better circumstances—he has no interest in a grieving child. “There are no restrictions on a Snow Walker’s speech, but Walking is a task for those content with silence.”

Chen nods, making no other reply. 

When the boy finishes his meal, Minseok picks up the pace a little, making further conversation an effort neither of them attempt. They walk for many hours through the longest night, following the lychway toward the pale dawn, sun rising to shine weakly on their backs through thick, gloomy clouds. Minseok keeps giving Chen pieces of pemmican throughout the journey, sating the emptiness of his own stomach with occasional handfuls of snow. If Chen notices Minseok’s not eating, he says nothing. In fact, he says nothing all day, merely trudging along at Minseok’s side.

Properly fed and dressed, Chen has decent stamina, though they make poor time even with Minseok’s arm linked with the boy’s to tug him along a little faster. The snow that starts an hour after sunrise is no help, obscuring what little visibility there is and slicking the ground beneath their boots. The sun is on the downward slope by the time they reach the Rumblefield lychgate. 

The thick stone structure sits a good distance from the little fishing village, a consecrated yet isolated site for the locals to leave their dead for pickup, close enough to the town that the silenced are fairly safe from predation attempts. And far enough away from the townsfolk to be safe for the weary Snow Walkers to eat and rest—or in this case, for a Snow Walker’s exhausted living charge. 

Chen is so tired it’s all Minseok can do to get him to eat the offerings of cheese, dried cloudberries, and jerky left in the lychgate’s food safe before he falls asleep on his feet.

“Why are we stopping here to eat?” Chen asks as he chews. “Should we not eat at the guesthouse and take this with us in the morning?”

His voice is a bit startling after not hearing it all day, deeper than his modest size would imply, thick with fatigue, slipping toward a whine.

“This is our guesthouse,” Minseok says, gesturing at the sepulchre built into the stone gate.

Chen blinks. “You truly do sleep with the dead? I thought that was just a rumor.”

“We’d hardly leave our charges outside unattended.” 

“But on the way back, surely you’d rather sleep in a proper bed?”

“We’re not welcome within a town.” 

Chen gapes. “Why the bells not? You work so hard and earn no pay. You should at least be well accommodated.”

Minseok shrugs. “The living often believe spirits cling to us, or that we’ll coax tenuously-attached souls—infants, the elderly—along with us when we leave,” Minseok explains. “So they feed us well—nobody would have us collapse and leave the silenced lying in the bleak—and they give us a pallet beside the bier, but otherwise we are shunned.”

Minseok lifts the heavy latch and pushes open the heavy bronze door. “We’re the only occupants in this case,” he assures the still uneasy-looking boy. “You’ve been walking from sunset to sunset with barely an hour’s rest. Come sleep.”

Chen swallows his food and his expression, following Minseok blank-faced into the sepulchre. He watches dully as Minseok lays out the bedroll and strips off his outerwear, gesturing for Chen to do the same.

“I’m sorry,” the boy says, so softly Minseok barely hears it. “For being a burden. You must have better things to do than shepherd me.”

Minseok snorts. “What else do you expect I should be doing?”

“Your duties—Oh.” The boy closes his eyes and his body shakes with a suppressed sob as he remembers why a Snow Walker would have trouble fulfilling his sworn task. “Still. You gave me your food. You’re forced to share your bed. And I’ve no way to compensate you—uh. Unless you… you’d like me to… Um. Pleasure you?”

“I’m not the sort to take pleasure at another’s expense,” Minseok says, voice clipped. “We share because it’s practical, not because I require ‘compensation.’ And we’ll have plenty of food now that we’ve reached the first lychgate.”

He lifts the top corner of the bedroll and gestures at it with his free hand. “Get in.”

Chen obeys and Minseok pulls the bronze sepulchre door shut, cutting off the fading light. Then he crawls in with him, ensuring the slim boy is tucked up as cozily as possible.

“It’s fine if you use my body,” Chen’s voice comes soft from the darkness. “For pleasure, I mean. There’s no other reason to keep it alive.”

Minseok squeezes his eyes shut despite the fact that there’s nothing to see. How many cold nights had he imagined himself to be pressed up against a warm, willing body as sweet as this one when reality was his own fist? Yet this broken little offer is the opposite of arousing. He’s pressed up against Chen’s back for warmth and nothing else.

“Sleep,” he tells the boy, and it’s silent after that.

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾

For a brief, blissful moment when Jongdae wakes, he’s entirely content. He’s warm, and there’s a strong, masculine arm draped across his chest. It’s exactly like waking up next to Jongdeok, those times when he’d finished his duties in the chill, wee hours of a winter’s morn and slid in beside Jongdae for warmth instead of crawling into his own bed across the room.

Except that it smells like sweat and lanolin instead of ash and oil, the man beside him’s not snoring, and though his eyes are open, all Jongdae sees is black.

It all comes back with a rush. How he’d sung the cancion in harmony with the bells—until the Tongues of Life had gone out. And then the darkness had devoured everything Jongdae loves.

A tear rolls down his cheek but he’s out of sobs, chest still sore from crying himself stupid after his impromptu nap the night before. Two days ago, Jongdae had been whining at his sister in the bellcote, up high in the open air. Now his sister is dead along with the rest of his family and the people of Dominari. Yet it’s Jongdae who’s lying in a lychgate.

Minseok’s arm tightens around him but the Snow Walker makes no other sign he’s awake. He’s probably been awake for who knows how long already, simply waiting for Jongdae to regain enough energy to drag him through more snow to some other sepulchre, then another and another until they finally get to Yon. And then? Duly deliver him to the temple at Yon and… what? Return to the duties he’s now unable to fulfill? Find a new job? And what’ll be done with the silenced now?

And what is Jongdae to do? He refuses to be a cantor of any kind ever again. But he’s not trained for any other career. Will it ever be safe to return to the ruined temple? Are the Tongues absent forever, or could they be relit? Is it now Jongdae’s duty to dwell among the dead, feeding the silenced to the flames? Or is the heat of his own body truly all he has to offer?

“Fretting so much is best done with a lute in one’s hands,” Minseok’s sleep-burred voice murmurs against Jongdae’s shoulder.

“Sorry to’ve disturbed your rest,” Jongdae says. “But I’m caught wondering what’ll happen now.”

“We go to Yon. We tell them what happened.”

“But then what? What’ll they do? Will I ever go home?”

“I know not. But Yon will surely shelter you.”

“What about you? Will they even let you into the town?”

“There's a lychrow at Yon. And I’ve Tan. If need be, she’ll feed and shelter me. We’ll survive.”

Jongdae wonders if Minseok's half-asleep still or if he's genuinely so unconcerned about the future.

“Are you not worried about anything?”

“Yes. I worry that you’ll be unable to walk so far under your own power. Then I’ll have to invite trouble by leaving the lychway for the main road, or I’ll have to invite worse trouble by carrying you along the paths traversed on foot by all but the dead.”

“I’ll walk,” Jongdae says. “Probably far slower than you’re used to, but I will walk. I’ll not fail to report what happened at the Grand Temple. I owe my family that much, at least.”

“Then we’ll resume our journey as soon as you’re ready.”

Jongdae stifles a sigh. He must endure—sore feet, the bitter cold, the meager, unheated rations that he’ll make sure they take enough of so that Minseok might eat properly instead of only feeding his sole living charge. He smiles wryly to himself as he pulls on his borrowed clothes. Minseok's still escorting the dead—Jongdae's only alive on the outside. Inside, his flame has gone out as surely as the Tongues no longer dance. 

That thought reminds Jongdae to keep his own tongue from dancing further. Minseok had said he preferred the silence, so the least Jongdae might do for the man saving his pointless life is to respect that.

Besides, he has no more questions, at least none that Minseok might answer. And Jongdae knows the routine now—follow the eerie, frozen path from lychgate to lychgate. Help themselves to the food left by the townsfolk who evidently otherwise pretend some magic fairy spirits away their dead. Sleep in sepulchres—Jongdae knows better than to hope they’ll all be empty, since midwinter is always a dangerous time for the frail—and eventually end up in a town Jongdae’s never even imagined.

He has no idea what might happen then. All he knows about Yon is that they make bells there that Jongdae will never again rub oil into. His wry smile persists as he chews his breakfast of fish jerky and dried seaweed. 

Oiling the bells. His father drilling him on hymns for hours. Hearing about his sister’s lychrow conquests. His mother pinching his cheeks hard enough to bruise. The chill of his brother’s feet when he’d crawl in bed with Jongdae.

Of course it’s the things he’d thought he hated that Jongdae misses the most.

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾


	2. Strike Note

# Strike࿄Note

Yon’s not so much a town as it is a volcano. Having only seen it illustrated in simple ink on the vellum scrolls used to educate schoolchildren, Jongdae keeps gaping behind his muffler as they approach. The long night is rendered meaningless by the streams of liquid rock glowing crimson on the horizon. He has to stop himself from asking Minseok about it, having adhered to his vow not to bother his escort anymore with his tears or his questions.

Minseok keeps looking over at him almost expectantly, but Jongdae manages to hold in all the words and noises trying to dribble out of his mouth like the lava sliding down the mountainside. Things like  _ people actually live here on purpose? _ and  _ of course they do, I bet they stay toasty warm _ and  _ probably needn’t even use tallow candles or blubber lamps or anything. _

Seeing it in person renders the name of Yon’s temple much more impactful than reading it from a recitation list ever had. It’s called the Temple of the Benevolent Blood and of course it is—it’s built to straddle a lava stream almost as the Temple of the Tongues of Life had been built around the now-extinguished flames. The glowing red oozes from the volcano steadily, as if Elyxion is bleeding, and it makes Jongdae sharply miss the temple he grew up in as much as the family he grew up with.

Jongdae had feared Minseok would simply drop him off at the lychgate and set off on his way, not needing anything in the world except that which he already has—clothes, staff, and giant cat. But of course the temple has a lychrow, so his parting from the Snow Walker would evidently be delayed for at least one more night. 

The High Cantor’s young son is the one to set the two of them up with sleeping cells, assuming Jongdae's also a Snow Walker on the way back to his home district to collect another charge. Jongdae has never had his own room, there being no need since he and Jongdeok kept such opposite schedules, they never interfered with each other’s privacy or otherwise got on each other’s nerves. But he’s being silent and cooperative so as not to burden Minseok more than necessary, so Jongdae merely nods when the kid gives them each a set of blankets and shows them to adjacent cells. 

He nods again at the recited meal schedule and temple service times, then enters the cell alone to sit on the bronze-framed bed with his face in his hands, trying not to freak out at the idea that the only living person whose name he knows is about to leave him here alone with strangers. Never mind that Minseok himself was a stranger a week ago. And never mind that they’ve hardly talked. That he knows nothing about Minseok except his name, his cat’s name, that his feet are a little bigger than Jongdae’s own— 

That thought makes tears well all the more, but he brushes them away and carefully unlaces the boots the Snow Walker had leant him. Then he pads out of his cell in the equally-borrowed woolen socks to knock at the bronze door beside his.

It’s not even shut all the way, but Jongdae waits silently for Minseok to pull the door open wider, angled brows asking questions over those big feline eyes. Then he holds out the boots, figuring that while he’s unable to return the rest of his clothes because that’d leave him mostly nude, he should at least give these back. No one knows better than Jongdae that a proper fit is important.

Minseok looks a little confused but reaches to accept the proffered boots. Jongdae steps back a little, swallowing twice to be sure his voice would work properly.

“Thank you,” Jongdae says sincerely. “For those, and for everything else. I’ll never forget how you saved my life.”  _ Even if I’ve no idea what to do with it. Even if I’m still not sure your effort was worthwhile. _

He offers a smile that he hopes looks grateful rather than pathetic, then turns around and goes back to the cell he’d been assigned. He shuts the door against the night, letting the gentle glow from the floor grates illuminate the room enough to haphazardly make the bed before collapsing into it, plenty warm thanks to the lava flowing beneath the room.

Jongdae could stay here. He could live here in this little cell, warm and safe. Surely whatever extinguished the Tongues would be no threat to an entire volcano. They could simply redirect the silenced here instead of to the collapsed temple—surely giving the dead to the streams of lava would free their spirits just as well. 

This thought makes his eyes water, unsure if his family were able to break free of their crushed bodies to join the dance, if the wavering curtains of silent song that shimmer across the stars on clear nights would also contain their spirits or if they were condemned to be pinned beneath the marble ruins forever.

Jongdae could never actually stay here instead of seeing to his family. He’s a disloyal coward for even thinking it. He needs to go back. Needs to go back with strong men and levers and pulleys and scaffolds, cranks and winches, ropes and chains. Needs to lift away the rubble, collect what he can, and bring all the remains back here to the lava. He needs to figure out what happened, how to make sure it’s safe, how to make sure his family is dancing in the song of the stars.

He’s unaware of his own sobs until there’s a knock at his door.

“Chen?”

Jongdae startles at the name before he remembers it’s what he’d told Minseok to call him all those days ago. It’d be rude to ignore him and Jongdae’s unable to be rude to someone who saved his sorry life, so he drags himself over to unlatch the door.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters to the concerned cat eyes hovering in the heart-shaped face Jongdae may only think of as beautiful. “I’ll be quiet so as not to disturb your rest.”

He goes to shut the door again but Minseok shoulders his way through, studying Jongdae with a face made foreign by the crimson uplighting.

“No apology needed,” he says. “Walkers are not the best company, but I’ll stay if you’d prefer awkward to alone.”

Jongdae’s next sob is one of astonishment. This man, whom Jongdae has only burdened, continues to offer himself and take nothing in return. Jongdae still has no idea why he himself was the one the Resonance deposited at the Snow Walker’s feet, but it’s incredibly evident why this Walker is the one the Resonance delivered him to.

“I’d prefer anything to alone,” Jongdae confesses, vulnerable as if he were standing nude in the bleak.

Minseok steps forward and pulls Jongdae into a hug. Having expected the Snow Walker merely to sit with him, Jongdae stiffens, but Minseok’s chest is so warm and his sweater is soft and smells of lanolin. So he melts against him, letting tears run unchecked from eyes to chin to the wool on Minseok’s shoulder.

Jongdae's unresisting when Minseok nudges them to the bed, letting the stoic Snow Walker once again tuck him in and settle beside him. Tomorrow, Jongdae will pretend to be a man grown, one capable of surviving without his parents, his family, his home. But for one more night, he’ll let himself be a weeping child, too immature for anything but a cradle-name, unable to sleep except tucked safe beneath his warden’s arm.

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾

It’s the High Cantor’s boy that wakes them up in the morning, bringing them trays bearing bowls of hot fish stew, sweetvetch roots, and mutton cracklings. He sets them on the little table in Jongdae’s room, then goes to fetch the metal stool from Minseok’s cell so they both have a place to sit. Minseok thanks the child before he sits and eats, much more alert in the mornings than Jongdae who has always found it difficult to rouse himself before the sun. 

Except there’s precious little sun these days, and Jongdae has a duty. So he forces himself to eat, sitting silently across from the Snow Walker in his borrowed clothes, wishing he had some way to replace them before Minseok once again set out to Walk the frigid lychways.

When the High Cantor’s boy returns to collect the trays, he startles so hard at the sight of Jongdae that Minseok has to shoot out a hand to steady the child.

“Grand High Cantor!” he exclaims, eyes locked on Jongdae’s throat. “I’d have never left you in the lychrow—why did you not say? Clappers, my dad’s gonna tune my bell good for not bringing you right to the temple—”

“I’m no cantor,” Jongdae interrupts. 

“But you wear the Soundbow.”

“Only because I’m unable to take it off,” Jongdae dismisses. “I’ve not the clef to unlock the clasps.”

His dad had held the clef. And his dad is buried under the crumbled marble of the fallen temple.

“Oh. Well. My dad should have a clef. But why did you put the Soundbow on if you’re not a cantor?”

Jongdae opens and closes his mouth twice before Minseok’s voice fills the void. 

“May we meet with your father soon?” he smiles at the boy. “Today or tomorrow, perhaps?” 

“Oh, yes, he’ll wish to see you right away. He’ll be in the Vessel—I can take you there as soon as you’re ready?”

The boy looks meaningfully at the door, empty trays in hand.

Smothering a sigh, Jongdae stands, squaring his shoulders and bronzing himself to fulfill his duty. He can do this, can face his father’s colleague and admit his failure to save him, how he’d scrambled in terror to save himself instead of aiding his family. He can do this, so the weight of the Soundbow may be struck from his throat and he can return to haunt the place his family died, voiceless and useless.

He’s vaguely aware of Minseok at his side, once again offering escort to the silent. He’s vaguely aware of the child leading them down below ground, of experiencing the intense heat produced by the Tongues except coming from all around him instead of sharp against his front while ice still danced along his spine. Far from his swirling thoughts, the High Cantor’s child addresses his father, gesturing at the two strangers he’d led down into this holy place.

The High Cantor is bent over a massive stone cauldron, feeding ingots of metal into the molten contents. He straightens up in response to his son’s words, unfolding into a tall man, heavily-muscled chest and arms on display thanks to the long, sleeveless tunic he wears instead of the enveloping cassock worn by the Grand High Cantor of the Temple of the Tongues.

The High Cantor of the Temple of the Blood cocks his head, squints at the visitors in the pervading crimson glow, and takes a step forward, huge hands outstretched. A name falls from his lips.

“Jongdae?”

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾

For the second time in the space of an hour, Minseok has to reach out to steady someone staggered by surprise. Chen shrinks against him for a moment before clenching his fists and stepping away from Minseok’s grasp.

“I’m no longer worthy of that name. I’m only Chen, and I’m here to admit my guilt and beg for aid.”

“Guilt for what, my boy? Why is the Tenor so dissonant?”

“I’m not the Tenor,” Chen says. “I’m a failure. My song died with the Tongues.”

The High Cantor scoffs. “At what could you have failed? Surely not for lack of talent or effort. You are your father’s son—giving up is not in your blood.”

“But I did give up,” Chen insists. “I left them there.”

“You’d have gone back had I not dragged you away,” Minseok points out. 

All eyes snap to Minseok, who then feels obligated to offer some straightforward narration since Chen seems unable to provide any. The High Cantor of the Blood seems to know Jongdae, but he seems not to grasp the significance of their sudden arrival and the gravity of Chen’s unfounded confession. If Minseok allows them to go on like this, having two entirely different conversations, they’ll never get anywhere. A Walker knows the shortest distance between two places is a straight line, so he delineates the gist of their recent experiences.

“The Temple of the Tongues came down upon the assembled during the grand symphonic. The darkness was absolute, alive, and hungry. We survived the initial destruction, so I brought us away to escape whatever may’ve followed. He’s suffered much, but he’s not at fault.”

The three only blink at him. Minseok shrugs, leaning a shoulder carefully against a wall.

The High Cantor is the first to recover. “The darkness came alive, you say?”

Minseok shrugs again. “I know not how else to describe it. Shadow seemed solid, and all light was swallowed as the night hissed. The darkness was thick with the smell of blood and the cries of the broken. Then the Tenor was at my feet, still living, so I hauled him off to keep him that way.”

“I’m not the Tenor,” Chen says again, but the High Cantor only nods.

“Toben,” he calls, and the High Cantor’s son turns away from Minseok. “Please fetch us the hymnal.”

The boy nods and runs off. The High Cantor slowly pulls Chen into an embrace. Chen is unresisting, though entirely unrelaxed.

“I’m sure you do not remember your old Uncle Chanyeol,” the High Cantor says. “How old are you now, son of my heart’s brother?”

“‘M twenty-two,” Chen mumbles into the High Cantor’s tunic.

Minseok’s eyebrow lifts. He’d thought the boy to be a decade younger than his own twenty-eight years. Minseok should’ve known better—grief makes a child of everyone. 

“You were only a wee thing when I saw you last, still learning letters and scales. It has been a decade and a half since then, but I know you, Jongdae, and I know your father. He named you with deliberation, nephew of my heart. You were his Jongdae since you were born, even if he waited for your Name Day to inform you of his choice. You were always his Great Bell, his perfect Tenor, and at the time I thought it hubris.”

The boy Toben returns with a heavy leather-bound book, and the High Cantor makes room for it on the cluttered metal worktable. He flips through it with intent, stopping at a particular page to run his fingers over the inked lyrics.

_ The Spark of Life: Elyxion’s Hope _

_ When longest night is utmost frore, _ _  
_ _ Lost in the darkness heart shall be. _ _  
_ _ When temple walls stand firm no more, _ _  
_ _ Bourdon from yoke must be struck free. _ _  
_ _ Though great bell cries out through the gloom _ _  
_ _ For sun to rise and life resume, _ _  
_ _ The spark of life from tongues is wrest, _ _  
_ _ Preserved to serve the Resonance! _

_ With selfless heart and voice most pure, _ _  
_ _ What fear hath veiled hope shall unlock. _ _  
_ _ With song and stave shall clef endure. _ _  
_ _ As darkness crawls the spark shall walk. _ _  
_ _ By tacet ways from ring to ring _ _  
_ _ Shall sun’s first rays salvation bring. _ _  
_ _ Spark scattered stars shall constellate, _ _  
_ _ Brought forth again to Resonate! _

_ Though blood is shed and spirits hide, _ _  
_ _ Song of the stars in bones is felt. _ _  
_ _ Though swallowed grief in ring must bide, _ _  
_ _ Pain’s icy grip is seen to melt. _ _  
_ _ While shadows threaten to advance, _ _  
_ _ At hand is death’s deliverance. _ _  
_ _ Love’s final gift before the dance, _ _  
_ _ Heart sings to heart in Resonance! _

_ Stars sung aglow by clear aubade, _ _  
_ _ Thus shall the dark be overcome. _ _  
_ _ Where life once burned death’s stand is made, _ _  
_ _ To shadow spark shall not succumb. _ _  
_ _ When bell is rung for live and slain, _ _  
_ _ The silver tongues shall sing again. _ __  
_ As stave and clef are redamant _ _  
_ _ Endlessly hope is Resonant!_

“That’s an old hymn,” Chen says when the High Cantor looks up from the page. “It’s sung every service.”

“And there’s a good reason for that. It’s probably the most meaningful hymn we have, and it’s certainly one of the oldest. It was written by one of the original ancestors, and it’s held to be a prophecy. It’s sung frequently that we may recognize events when they come to pass and react appropriately.”

“And you think these ‘events’ are happening now?”

“It certainly seems so. The darkness crawled, the temple collapsed, and before me stands Dominari’s Bourden—another word for a ring’s largest bell, also called—”

“The Tenor.” Jongdae scowls. “I always thought it was just old-timey spelling, like ‘hath.’”

“Well, the modern word ‘burden’ is probably derived from it—a Tenor is certainly heavy and difficult to transport. And a Tenor has been dislodged from his belltower on the longest night to end up here. If your father’s choice of name was vision rather than ambition, then you’ve not failed. You’ve instead only just begun, my dear nephew.”

“Even if that’s true—which is impossible for me to believe—how am I meant to preserve the spark to serve the Resonance when the Tongues have already been extinguished?” 

“You’re not,” Minseok says, once again drawing all eyes to himself as if they’d only now remembered he’s in the room with them.

“What?” Chen blinks at him, eyebrows curving up toward the center of his forehead.

“It’s not your task to keep the spark alive,” Minseok states. “I suspect that duty remains mine.”

The High Cantor grins at him, dimpled and toothy in a way that makes him look like a giddy child instead of a beleaguered adult.

“Why would it be your duty?”

“I know not,” Minseok shrugs. “The Resonance is rarely seen plainly. But it’s often felt deeply, and on the darkest night the ringing of the bells set an ache in my bones.”

“They were out of tune,” Chen murmurs. “It was too cold. It was only the third time in my life the night air had been cold enough to contract the bellmetal out of true, though with so many warm hearts filling the naos, we felt it not. But I heard it—I could tell from the opening toll, but a peal is uninterruptible once begun. And what could we have done about it, anyway?”

Chen looks up at the High Cantor with glistening eyes. “So I sang the Song of Hope to match the bells—it felt wrong to deliberately cause dissonance by singing it true when the bells rang false. But the Resonance has punished me for my hubris by taking  _ everything _ from me. The chain around my throat mocks me every time I swallow.”

Minseok’s heart squeezes at Chen’s distress. He’s hauled many a taxing load through the bleak, but guilt is said to be the heaviest burden. No wonder the poor guy can barely function.

The High Cantor sets a comforting hand on Chen’s shoulder. “My dear boy, the Resonance is not vindictive—you know this in your true heart, even if your grief understandably clouds your mind. The Resonance is the great restorer, bringing harmony and peace, smoothing dissonance away and lifting all songs into one symphony. There's nothing too discordant for the Resonance to resolve into the harmony, just as a skillful cantor can blend his voice with bells distorted by cold.”

He stoops slightly, rounding his back and bending his knees in an effort to look Chen eye to eye. “A conductor should strive for the best, but once the performance has begun, one must work with the instruments one has. We cannot always orchestrate  _ everything, _ and adapting is not hubris. Hubris is the idea that perfection is an always-achievable outcome rather than an earnest aspiration.”

The High Cantor holds his gaze until Chen slowly nods, ducking his chin and swiping at his eyes with the cuffs of the sweater Minseok had lent him that morning. Evidently satisfied, the High Cantor lifts his eyes to Minseok. 

“You must be very sensitive to the Resonance, friend Walker. It seems a waste to have you treading the bleak with such a gift.”

“It seems it was not a waste, for it drove me to step out of the temple, seeking ease, just as the shadows became solid. My agony increased as the temple screamed and shook, and I was unable to move until a soul sang out to the dead for salvation.”

“You heard me swear?” Chen asks, glancing sheepishly at Minseok through long, thick lashes.

Minseok nods. “Your voice drove the buzzing from my bones and sang across my skin. I ripped the leather from my staff to find a figure at my feet.” 

“That’s no reason for you to be stuck with shepherd duty,” Chen says. “High Cantor Park is right. You’d be a great bellfounder, with your build and your ear. You’ve no obligation to waste your gifts on this.”

Minseok snorts. “Waste my gifts on  _ you, _ you mean?”

Chen’s skin is already bathed crimson by the molten glow around them, but the way he ducks his chin tells Minseok his interpretation was correct.

“What exactly is wasteful about preserving the spark of life for all of Elyxion?” Minseok asks, lips curving as Chen’s shoulders bracket his head. “Or would you hire another escort for a song and leave me to tune some other bell,  _ Jongdae?” _

Chen’s groan is gratifying.

Minseok leans back against the wall with a shrug. “Besides, I’m called out in your prophecy—’at hand is death’s deliverance.’ And here I am. It seems unwise to decline a duty so clearly mine.”

“That’s not what it means,” Chen protests. “It’s clearly talking about being delivered  _ from _ death, not someone who delivers the silenced to the Temple of the Tongues.”

“Is it?” the High Cantor asks. “A bell’s strike note is the loudest and most clear, but it is not the only tone produced.”

“Then the prophecy could be about anything! Anyone! Why does it have to be me? I’m nothing special!”

“Jongdae,” the High Cantor says, but Minseok knows the litany of praise sure to follow is not what the kid needs right now.

“Special or not, you’re the one that survived,” Minseok states. “You’re here and alive and your voice is trained. If you’ll not take up this task, who will?”

“But what even is this task you expect me to take up?”

“As the hymn says: you must sing the stars aglow where life once burned.”

“Oh, is that all?” Chen’s laughter is harsh. “No trouble, then—I’ll just stroll on back to the wreck of my entire life and give a little serenade. Would the acoustics be better on top of the pile of rubble or beneath it? Do the stars have any requests? Are they into bawdy songs, would you think? Lullabies? Or are they all pious and fancy?”

The High Cantor’s laughter is fond. “You’ve your mother’s snap. Hopefully it’ll serve you well in this rather than hamper you.”

He reaches to close the hymnal, fastening the clasp and handing it to Toben, who drops a bow and carries off the leatherbound book.

“I’m not gifted with interpretation—if one wishes to see clearly, one must step into the light. None are better at that than High Cantor Byun of the Temple of the Hide at Dorus.”

“You’re sending me off?” Chen’s eyes are wide.

“Not yet—and not alone, I should hope.” The High Cantor turns, eyes lingering on Minseok’s face, then sweeping over his body where he’s still leaning against the wall. “Will you continue to escort our spark through the bleak, friend Walker?”

Minseok nods. 

“Is there anything we can provide to assist you in that?”

Minseok shakes his head. “We're equipped well before being sent into the bleak. Chen needs proper boots, but I’m told our kit is warmer than any other, and we’re all taught the warming thrum and the warding chants. Given enough food, I can keep us warm well enough, and my tundra cat will aid the wards to keep us safe.”

The High Cantor’s brows lift at that. “I was unaware our Walkers called forth Resonance,” he says. “Is it only warming and warding you’re taught? Do you know how to sing forth a fire?”

Minseok shakes his head again. “Walkers embrace the dark and light evenly,” he states. “Both give and take, bless and curse. There's no need to create light when the dark is natural and harmless aside from what it conceals, and illuminating ourselves overmuch may only make us targets of what may otherwise remain uninterested.”

“There is wisdom in that,” the High Cantor acknowledges. “But there is also wisdom in being prepared to fight shadow with flame.”

He points his finger at one of the bubbling pools of lava that heats this chamber, singing two short, sharp notes that seem to crackle through the air. A bolt of flame jumps from his outstretched finger, burying itself in the molten rock and causing it to flare bright as new blood before dulling again to a more congealed hue.

Chen gapes. “Spectrum, what was that?” he mutters, then claps his hand over his mouth, eyes darting furtively from Minseok to the High Cantor.

Minseok fails to suppress his smile at the way the Grand High Cantor’s son swears by the domain of the dead upon being shown a skill to keep himself among the living. But the High Cantor of the Blood is frowning at the boy.

“My dearest nephew, you were raised in the Resonance. How is this such a shock to you that you’d break the sanctity of the Vessel with an oath?”

“I was raised to sing!” Chen defends. “To worship! To lead others in the glorification of the Supreme Resonance! Not to perform  _ miracles. _ Next you’ll be telling me the ancestors truly did sing their dominion over sky and sea.”

The High Cantor nods. “I can only assume that they did. But surely you’ve felt the Resonance within the Temple of the Tongues? How could you sing of faith, lead others to belief, without having any of your own?”

“I believe,” Chen protests. “I worship with a true heart! And of course I’ve felt the Resonance—the Temple is— _ was— _ made to magnify every sound into a symphony. A harmony of echoes. Not—not this  _ dreamstuff.” _

“Dreamstuff is what’s needed when life is a waking nightmare,” Minseok states, “and your voice is purer than mine. I’m capable with chants and hums, and I suspect I could perform this strain well enough with practice. But a voice like  _ yours  _ could well set the very night ablaze.”

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾

Jongdae’s thoughts had been reeling until Minseok’s words sharpen them to a singular point. “I could relight the Tongues,” he breathes, staring at the quiet pool of magma into which the High Cantor’s miraculous flame had disappeared. “I’ll relight the tongues, ensure the dead can join the dance. My family.”

But when he looks up, both Minseok and the High Cantor are shaking their heads. 

“Your concern should not be for the dead,” the High Cantor says. “Your song is needed to preserve the living.”

A scowl pulls Jongdae’s features tight. “So this is my prophesied task? To sling fire at the stars? What possible good will that do?”

“We’ll not know unless you succeed, my dear nephew. Do you need me to demonstrate the strain again?”

“I heard well enough the first time,” Jongdae mutters. 

It’s not his ear that’s the problem. It’s that, as Minseok had said, his entire life is a nightmare, and nobody seems about to help him wake up. They all would have him walk deeper into this nonsense, follow some old, dusty words that make a pretty song but a ridiculous set of ‘instructions.’ They’d have him be some kind of hero, but he’s only some guy with a decent voice, someone with a shattered heart, a broken soul. He’s not cut out for heroics.

Guys like Minseok are cut out for heroics. Guys like Jongdae are cut out for mundane, simple lives. For quiet, ignoble deaths beside the broken bodies of their families.

And because he’s the heroic type, the press-on-and-do-what’s-needed type, Minseok shifts his gaze from Jongdae to the pool of lava, humming a set of unfamiliar scales, clearing his throat. Then he stands poised, one hand gripping his staff, the other pointed at the pool, backlit by the crimson glow in a tableau that only underlines his superior suitability for this or any other task. 

And then he sings the pair of notes, pitch and tempo accurate as if he’d replayed the High Cantor’s own strain. But Minseok’s voice is like ice instead of glass, equally smooth and shining but not quite as clear. The flame that jumps from his fingertip to the pool of liquid rock is just as hot and bright but significantly smaller, absorbing into the magma without disrupting the surface at all.

Jongdae scoffs. Holding out his own finger toward the glowing pool, he sings out the strain. Minseok yelps, arms flailing and body bowing to avoid the massive fireball that whizzes past him into the lava. And the High Cantor yelps, too, as the stone in his pontifical ring glows red-hot. He rips it off and dashes it to the ground in his haste to blow cool air over the back of his finger.

As the ring bounces against the polished stone floor, the stone flies loose of the setting, skittering across the smooth black surface to lie glowing at Jongdae’s feet.

Like a dying ember, the light in the stone dims to nothing as Jongdae reaches for it. It’s perfectly cool when he picks it up, causing his brow to furrow at the High Cantor, still blowing air over his burned finger.

“Sing it again,” he says between puffs.

Jongdae does, repeating the notes softly, eyes locked on the red faceted stone nestled in the hollow of his palm. It glows just as softly in response, warming slightly before light and heat die away along with the strain.

“‘Stars sung aglow,’ indeed,” the High Cantor murmurs, still shaking his blistered hand.

Minseok's grinning at Jongdae, smile almost as bright as the stone in his hand had been a moment ago.

“Still insist another is better suited for this task, oh Great Bell?” he asks, angled brow lifting along with the question’s intonation.

Numbed by awe, Jongdae merely shakes his head. He still has no concrete idea what he’s meant to do—assuming he chooses to take up the task at all—but he now at least feels like he has a weapon against whatever darkness obliterated his family. He has no coin to hire a cart or reindeer and the coastal road is too long on foot, but Jongdae has already walked the lychway once and survived. He can do it again, whether or not Minseok wishes to accompany him that way. With the ability to sing himself a fire, he’d not need the Walker or his cat—he could keep himself warm, light his own way, find his way back to his family and avenge them, relight the Tongues and send them to the dance.

He has no need for some fancy prophecy. He has no need to sling fire at the stars when he can sling it right at the clapping shadows that devoured all he loves.

“When do we leave?” he asks, bending to retrieve the High Cantor’s ring. He holds it and the crimson stone out to their owner.

“Not for weeks yet, my dear boy,” the High Cantor says, accepting the ring but leaving the stone in Jongdae’s hand. “The stone is yours—perhaps it truly is part of the prophecy, perhaps it’s a weapon against the dark, but surely the Resonance has made clear it does not belong in a bellfounder’s ring. Keep it well—perhaps I’ve a chain around here somewhere it might be suspended from.”

“Would it not fit within one of the voids in his neckpiece?”

Jongdae frowns over at Minseok. “I’m trying to get the Soundbow off—it’s not mine to wear, anyway. It never truly was. And even if it were, I’ve no wish to fasten an ember against my throat.”

Minseok only shrugs. “It’d be hard to lose if set in a neckpiece that’s not easily separated from its wearer.”

“There is merit to the thought,” the High Cantor says. “But I’d need to remove the Soundbow to try setting a stone in it, anyway.” 

Giving his blistered finger a final shake, he starts rummaging in drawers and cubbies until he comes up with a clef, a tiny bellmetal key so like the one that had hung from a cord wrapped around Jongdae’s father’s wrist. He sets it in Jongdae’s still-open palm beside the stone he refuses to reclaim. “Let me know what you decide about the setting—if nothing else, I’ll find a small purse or something to keep it in.”

“That’s not necessary,” Jongdae says, setting the stone down on a workbench so he can fumble with the clef and the clasps at the nape of his neck.

He jumps when gentle fingers brush against his own, tugging the tiny key from his hand. Minseok truly does move with a cat’s stealth, so Jongdae’s startled heart is pounding as the Walker carefully unlocks the Soundbow. Jongdae lifts a hand to his throat to catch the heavy links as they fall away, placing the chain and the clef on the workbench beside the stone.

“I’ll not be needing any of this,” Jongdae states firmly. “And if I could just beg a pair of boots in my own size, there’s no need to wait for weeks. Another day of rest would do me good, but I’ll be ready to set off in the morning.”

“Nonsense,” the High Cantor dismisses. “To resonate well, a bell must be in tune with itself. And you, my dear boy, are jangling with dissonance. You’ll stay a while, help me in the forge, let the Blood melt your grief until it’s part of your mettle. We’ll trade tales of your father, your family, remembering them well to each other. We’ll forge a bell in their honor, together, and we’ll join with the bellringers to sound the knell of the Grand High Temple and those within it. We’ll sing a dirge for the dead of Dominari. And then you’ll go to the High Cantor of the Scintillating Hide, who’s the one that once told your father that his best apprentice would be his own son. And you’ll learn what he can see about this prophecy and how to fulfill it.”

Impatience claws at Jongdae’s chest. “I sang the fire well enough, dissonant or no. Should I not set off to fulfill my duty without delay?”

Minseok trades a look with the High Cantor that echoes those his parents would exchange whenever they were about to deny Jongdae some request.

Jongdae needs no other response. If they’re going to treat him like a child, he’ll fulfill their expectations.

“Thank you for your time, High Cantor. And thank you for unlocking the Soundbow. I’m rather weary yet—I’ll just go rest in my cell.”

He pivots and leaves the Vessel, pretending not to hear the voices that call after him. He has no true need of their blessing or their permission to set off for the ruins of his home.

All he needs is a well-fitting pair of boots.

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾

“Will he wait for morning?” 

Minseok shrugs in response to the High Cantor’s question, still gazing in the direction of Chen’s abrupt departure. “He’s only not still beside his family because I pulled him away and he was too weak to resist. But his strength and resolve have since returned, and there's little difference between morning and night these days. No reason for a determined traveller to wait for a specific hour.”

Pushing away from the wall, Minseok makes to follow his ward.

“So you’ll escort the Great Bell toward the darkness instead of the light?”

Minseok pauses at the High Cantor’s incredulous voice. “Would you rather he go off alone?”

“I’d rather he stay until he’s recovered a bit. Rebalanced. Ready to move forward. He’s in no shape to bear Elyxion’s burdens when he’s so crippled by his own.”

The High Cantor picks up the abandoned neckpiece, holding it out as if in proof. “He obviously trusts you a lot more than the stranger who claims to have loved his father. Can you not change his mind? Keep him here?”

“Seems to me that my only charge is to keep him alive, not to determine his course,” Minseok calls over his shoulder. “I’m merely a warden of bodies, not of minds.”

As he walks up the stone staircase, he’s fairly sure he hears the High Cantor utter the same oath he’d previously chided Chen for.

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾

Minseok's waiting for him at the lychgate, because of course he is. He’s forming snowballs in mittened hands and tossing them for Tan to bat from the air with a swat of a massive paw, laughing as the tundra cat bounces behind snowdrifts before leaping out at her false prey. The setting sun limns his face in bronze, a searing contrast to the lychlight that had illuminated it when Jongdae had first laid eyes on the Snow Walker.

He looks happy. It makes him even more beautiful and for a moment Jongdae hates him. Hates that anyone can be happy in this world where Jongdae’s been left so alone. The sole survivor by Resonant design, if the prophecy is to be believed, left to cry out in the gloom for a family he’ll never see again. 

Is this meant to be an honor? It tastes much more like betrayal. To be left alive to save the world, when it’s now empty of everything he’s ever loved. 

It was easier to believe the loss of his family was a punishment for not singing the grand symphonic true and pure. The assurances from the High Cantor of the Blood that it was meant to happen, that Jongdae had been born not simply to be his father’s successor but to somehow save humanity are much harder to swallow, even without the metal of the Soundbow tight around his neck.

As if Jongdae’s merely a clapper, made only to swing within the bell of his own life, striking his head against unforgiving metal, ringing out at the pull of a rope rather than his own choices. Manufactured to serve a purpose other than his own. To dangle helplessly without external guidance.

Jongdae had always chafed at being his father’s instrument, but at least his father had loved him, would’ve loved him just as much even if he’d not been born with the kind of voice that meant he could assume his father’s mantle. The Resonance may have preserved Jongdae’s life, but no care has been taken for his heart. 

Saving the world for everyone else is not going to restore his family to him. His home. Even if he succeeds at blasting the shadows into oblivion and sending his family to the dance, his former home will still be nothing but broken, lifeless stone. Rather like Jongdae’s heart.

Perhaps he’s meant to throw himself into the Tongues once they’re restored. Let the light and heat devour him as the cold and dark had devoured his family. That sounds about as likely as any other interpretation of that stupid prophecy.

Right now, it seems a more welcome ending than having to continue on without them, completely and utterly alone.

Keeping his head low, Jongdae ignores the Snow Walker and his incongruously kittenish tundra cat. He merely marches off down the same lychway they’d arrived on, feet much more comfortable in the better-fitting boots he’d swapped his appropriated oversized pair for. Evidently Walker equipment is valuable enough that he was able to trade the used boots for a brand-new pair in his size, built sturdy and made to last. Once he’d have been thrilled to have any item of clothing his brother had never worn, but of course even that tiny speck of sweetness only tastes bitter in the back of his throat.

He continues to ignore Minseok and Tan even as they fall into step behind him, gritting his teeth as the Snow Walker continues to play with his companion. He sure talks and laughs a lot for a guy who claimed to prefer silence, which makes Jongdae suspect he’s being noisy purely to remind him that he’s there. That he has nothing better to do besides follow Jongdae around. That he needs nothing besides his companion and his staff—oh, and of course his ability to sing up warmth or a fire whenever he feels a bit chilled.

Well, Jongdae can sing a fire now, too. He’d helped himself to plenty of the food left at the lychgate—he’s not the intended beneficiary, but he’s going to serve the silenced so surely it’s forgivable. So he’s well supplied and it’s not like he can get lost—since the silenced are meant to traverse the straightest possible route, the lychways intersect but never fork. All he needs to do is keep going straight and he’ll get there, probably more slowly than he’d like without Minseok half-dragging him along, but he’ll get there. 

He only needs to put one foot in front of the other.

Except that becomes rather difficult surprisingly quickly. He’s only been walking for an hour or so but his feet feel just about frozen through. The blue of the long twilight is enough to let him see where he’s going but still he stumbles frequently, numbed feet failing to correct for any irregularity on the surface of the icy lychway.

“I’ll teach you the warming thrum, if you like,” Minseok calls, not even a trace of chattering teeth in his speech.

“G-g-go t-toll yourself,” Jongdae growls.

The sounds of play dissolve into silence. Jongdae manages to resist looking over his shoulder for twenty-three steps. Of course, Minseok's still behind him, Tan looming at his back.

“I s-said-d-d t-toll yourself.”

“You know I’m not about to do any such thing. I know not what I’ve done to irk you, but I wish you’d let me help. I worry for your feet.”

“M-my f-feet are f-f-fine.”

“You’re not even feeling them anymore.”

Jongdae’s just about beyond feeling anything, body or spirit. He stumbles, unable to throw his arms up in time to rebalance—but of course Minseok catches him, pulling him close and tucking his face into one side of Jongdae’s hood. For a surreal second, Jongdae thinks Minseok’s about to kiss him. Instead, the Snow Walker hums low against his ear, tone oscillating a half step in a relaxed cadence.

Jongdae tries to push him away.

Minseok holds on with a stone grip, lifting one shockingly warm hand to cup Jongdae’s face as he continues to hum against his cheek.

“‘M n-not g-goin’ b-b-back wi’ you,” Jongdae protests as firmly as he can without biting off his own tongue.

“I’m going back with  _ you,” _ Minseok murmurs. “But I’ll not carry you. Thrum so you can keep your feet.”

For a flicker of a moment, Jongdae hates Minseok even more for being so un-hateable. But his icy anger at the Resonance and his place in it is not keeping him warm. The Walker’s thrum will, if Jongdae can manage to stop his teeth from chattering long enough to do it. 

It takes him a few tries to get it going properly and as soon as he feels the warmth radiating from his own bones he drops the thrum, startled and more than a little alarmed.

“I know it’s unnerving, but it’s better than losing flesh to frostbite,” Minseok chuckles, face still so close to Jongdae’s.

Again, he hums in Jongdae’s ear. Again, Jongdae mimics the low oscillation, closing his eyes to better concentrate on the sensations inside his body, to observe and reassure himself instead of panicking at the eerie feeling.

“That’s it,” Minseok says. “Get a rhythm going as you walk—movement helps circulate the warmth. Inhale slowly, then thrum slowly. There’s a minim another two leagues up—three, perhaps four hours. We’ll camp there if you like.”

Any answer Jongdae may have made is cut off by a snarling hiss.

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾

Minseok pulls his face away from Chen’s ear at Tan’s warning, looking around to see what danger his inattention had exposed them to. There’s nothing immediately threatening, but Tan’s bright eyes are locked on the horizon, torso stretched, ears focused, short tail flicking in unease. Minseok’s heart kicks with alarm—the tundra cat’s fur is all puffed, distorting the so-familiar silhouette of his companion into something uncanny. 

Tan hisses again, taking half a step back. Minseok’s not one to jump at every little oddity, but the tundra cat has always been full of an apex predator’s confidence. This uncharacteristic display has his spine crawling with lightning as he follows her gaze with his own.

So far ahead that Minseok’s not sure he’s seeing it through the deepening twilight, there’s some sort of smudge on the lychway. 

He fails to realize he’s tightening his grip on Chen’s shoulders until he squirms in protest, twisting from Minseok’s grasp to stare down the lychway at the nebulous threat.

“Chen,” Minseok breathes, forcing his hands to remain at his own sides instead of grabbing up the guy he’d pledged himself to protect. “In the decade I’ve walked the lychways with Tan by my side, we’ve faced the hazards of the bleak without fuss. I’ve never seen her show fear.”

“‘As darkness crawls, the Spark shall walk,’” Chen recites hollowly. “The Resonance sure is insistent about this ‘singing to the stars.’ A bell is but an instrument, and evidently this instrument must learn to play the carol written for it or be silenced.”

“You’re better suited for song than silence,” Minseok states, taking Chen’s arm. “It is your choice to fulfill the ancient verse or not, but my choice has been made either way. I’ll not let you die.”

Chen huffs. “I’m not to die or allowed to live. What the bells am I meant to do?”

“At the moment?” Minseok eyes the smudge. “I’d say our choices are limited to fight or flee.”

“I’m tired of fleeing,” Chen says. 

In a stance as if he’s about to conduct a peal, Chen sweeps his right hand over his head to point toward the smudge on the horizon. At the same time, he belts out the strain, the sound resounding across the icy plain like the bell Chen’s father named him for.

As Minseok predicted, the twilight gloom is shattered by the man-sized fireball that erupts from Chen’s hand. It streaks down the lychway, scarlet shoving aside indigo, shrinking with distance to the size of an ember before impacting the smudge with a flare of brilliance. It takes a moment for the resulting shriek to reach their ears, but Minseok hardly notices it.

He’s too busy catching Chen’s rigid, blue-lipped form as it topples to the snow.

“Chen?”

Chen’s eyes roll, wide with alarm. Minseok cradles a clammy cheek, thrumming reflexively upon realizing how dangerously cold his ward is. He’s only done this once before, for a Walker who’d broken a leg and lost his winter wolf beneath a toppled serac. The injured man barely managed to drag himself from the scene of the accident, and Minseok had initially thought him dead.

He’d tried life’s kiss on the injured Walker as an obligatory effort to save his fellow, but it’s a much sharper feeling in his gut this time as he presses his mouth to Chen’s. On a low, sustained note that makes his throat ache, Minseok exhales his own thrum-enhanced heat into Chen’s frozen lungs. Once, twice, three times before Chen gasps, mittened hands closing reflexively around Minseok’s arms.

“Thrum,” Minseok commands, fighting off a shiver with another thrum of his own. “And walk.”

Chen obeys, voice rough and thready at first but regaining timbre along with warmth. He stumbles along beside Minseok, thrumming in counterpoint with Minseok’s own efforts to regain the warmth he’d given away. Tan trails them, feet silent as usual but periodic hissing revealing her continued presence at their backs. 

“Th-the shadows,” Chen pants once he’s warmed up enough to do so. “S-still coming?”

Minseok briefly twists to observe the lychway behind him, but his puffed-up tundra cat is blocking any view of the smudge.

“I know not,” he says, tugging Chen forward again.

“We’re going b-back to Yon?”

“Yes.”

“What if we l-lead them there?” Chen slows, weight heavy on Minseok’s arm. “What if I k-kill them, too?”

“You’ve not killed anyone,” Minseok states, stepping faster again despite the drag of Chen’s feet. “If shadows walk the lychway, they’ll end up at Yon whether we’re there or not. And if we’re there, we can set you above the volcano and have you sing out fire again.”

The drag ceases as Chen surges forward. “Yes,” he says, voice steadier. “Yes—I need heat. We’ll all sing fire, destroy what stole my family’s lives.”

“Resonance willing,” Minseok agrees.

“Then I’ll go back,” Chen continues. “I’ll see to my family.”

Minseok holds his tongue, merely swinging his pack around to pull out two cakes of pemmican and hand one to Chen. His duty is to protect, not to argue. Unless Chen’s path again threatens to lead to his doom, Minseok will not interfere.

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾

The High Cantor startles dramatically when Jongdae bursts back into the Vessel.

“Jongdae? Are you all—”

“They’re coming,” Jongdae states, waving off the High Cantor’s concerns. “The shadows. We need to burn them off. Get everyone who can sing up fire and station them somewhere  _ hot, _ somewhere they can see the lychway.”

“What’s all this, now?”

“Singing too much fire pulls heat from the body—I’d have burned the fecicles away myself but I almost turned into a clapping glacier from performing a fervent strain. I need somewhere that I’m warm—too hot. So I can send that extra heat into those clapping shadows before your son also knows what it’s like to be fatherless.”

The High Cantor blinks. “You believe us to be in danger?”

“That’s what I clapping said,” Jongdae snarls. “Help me help you, Uncle. I’ve no wish to watch another town die.”

“It’ll be as the Resonance wills,” the High Cantor says. “But it’s in my own will not to go down without a fight. We’ll flank the Wound, as close as we can stand. I’ll send the chorale, the Treble—anyone who can hold a tune.”

“We’re losing light,” Minseok adds. “We’ll not be able to see their approach. Let me take tallow lanterns out along the lychway, placing them at intervals.”

“We’ll be too far away to see anything illuminated by all but the closest lanterns,” the High Cantor says.

“We’ll not be watching for the shadows themselves,” Minseok points out. “We’ll be watching for the lanterns to start winking out.”

“Go, then—Toben will show you where the lanterns are kept. Take a reindeer—“

“I’ll not add to our peril,” Minseok says. “I’m swift enough when I need to be.”

And then Minseok and the High Cantor’s boy are gone, plucking some string of anxiety in Jongdae’s heart. He’d hoped to have the Snow Walker at his side, but of course it’s far better to be efficient than to coddle an orphan’s fear of losing the few remaining people who know his name. So he shakes off the urge to go running after Minseok and follows the High Cantor instead, eating more pemmican as they round up capable voices and head up the bleeding side of the volcano.

It takes two hours to assemble everyone near the Wound, and not once does Jongdae stop thinking about Minseok out there on the lychway alone. It’s ridiculous, because who better than a Snow Walker to travel the trails of his profession? He’ll be just fine out there. Of course he’ll be fine. Completely.

He watches the small lights appear in the distance, one every quarter-hour or so, spaced that much further down the lychway. They’re so tiny that someone not looking for them would miss them entirely, but all of Jongdae’s attention is trained on that point of the purpling landscape. Nine lanterns glow bravely against the long night, then ten. Eleven—wait.

The next lantern’s not stationary. It’s a streak more than a point, and it’s followed by another, then a third, tracking along the lychway to burst some four or five lantern-intervals from the last stationary flame. There’s a brief pause, and then another three lights streak away to burst again, this time no further than four lantern-intervals from their origin.

“Minseok,” Jongdae breathes. That heroic bastard is showing them where the shadows are and how fast they’re moving, singing out fire against the leading edge of the crawling black.

“I see it,” the High Cantor says, voice grim. Then he bellows to the assembled singers, directing their attention to the next series of three tiny fireballs. “Aim just ahead of where they break! Be aware of your neighbor—let’s burn shadows, not citizens. All together now! One, two—”

On the count of three, they all sing out at once, arms sweeping out toward where Minseok’s guiding lights had burst. This time when Jongdae feels the warmth leave his body, it’s a welcome relief from the sweltering heat all around him, and it’s replaced just as rapidly as the air in his lungs.

The volley of fireballs illuminates the town at the volcano’s feet as they pass overhead, shooting stars arcing toward the edge of the bleak. They flare so bright upon impact that Jongdae reflexively shields his eyes, but that leaves him entirely unsure whether they had an effect.

But three fireballs streak out as soon as his eyes have adjusted, and while it’s hard to be sure, it certainly seems like the leading edge has advanced no further.

It’s moved up again by the time the next guiding lights burst against the tide, but Jongdae and the others have been waiting for it. So they sing out immediately afterwards, sending fireballs down just ahead to meet the shadows surging forward.

They repeat this cycle of waiting for the guides, then aiming together, and it only takes two repetitions before the leading edge seems to be stationary. Three cycles after that, the edge has retreated, and five more volleys later, Minseok’s guiding lights streak off down the lychway, nothing impeding their travel until they’re too far away to be seen.

A cheer goes up from parched, ragged throats, and several people fold forward, remaining on their feet only by willpower and the knowledge that the rock beneath their thick-soled boots is too hot to be safe for bare hands. Jongdae’s only peripherally aware of the relieved figures around him, dodging the High Cantor’s attempt at an embrace in favor of rushing down the mountain toward the true hero of Yon.

The lanterns Minseok had left along the trail now serve as a string of light tugging Jongdae along, heated muscles carrying him down the lychway faster than his usual trudge. Descending the volcano had taken less time than it had to ascend and he’d darted through the town like an escaped reindeer, but it’s probably an hour and a half before Minseok comes into view. Just after Jongdae passes the fourth lantern, he shifts from a half-jog into a sprint to crash into the escort of the dead that had just saved thousands of lives.

Aside from an  _ oof _ upon impact, Minseok absorbs the force of Jongdae’s tackle without being affected by it, feet planted firmly on the snowy path as his arms wrap around Jongdae. Minseok lets out a low chuckle, and suddenly Jongdae feels incredibly foolish.

He pushes away from the Snow Walker, warm cheeks having nothing to do with exertion. “Uh. Well done,” he mumbles, flashing an awkward smile before turning back toward Yon.

“I’m glad you understood what I was trying to show you,” Minseok says. “I was a little afraid you’d not, but I’d no wish to get any closer to them, nor did I wish them to get any closer to the town.”

“That was good thinking all around,” Jongdae agrees. “I’m glad you stayed safe.”

“I had to,” Minseok huffs, clearly amused. “I’ve still a duty to uphold.”

The chill of the night seeps into Jongdae all at once and he barely keeps himself from stumbling. “Right,” he says. “Uh. Thanks.”

“Merely doing my part,” Minseok dismisses. 

He offers no other conversation after that, and Jongdae keeps his own words to himself. Bad enough that some prophecy has convinced this actual hero that he needs to follow Jongdae around like Elyxion’s most overqualified childminder. Jongdae needn’t be annoying on top of that.

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾

It’s an odd thing indeed to go from being shunned to being enthusiastically welcomed by a town full of smiling people who clap Minseok on the shoulder and try to give him things. He politely refuses most of them on the grounds that he has no home in which to keep trifles and trinkets, no matter how beautiful or finely made. 

Aside from forging metal and making glass, Yon’s source of perpetual heat is put to many other uses, chief of which is processing Elyxion’s livestock. Sheep and reindeer are driven into town to be slaughtered and made full use of; stripped of their hides for fabric, leather, and vellum; carcasses butchered into meat, rendered into tallow, oil, and cracklings; bones, horns, and antlers transformed into furniture, tableware, and other household goods. The wealth of heat and light mean craftspeople are able to work long hours even in the dead of winter, and they’re anxious to shower “Yon’s hero” with their best work.

Minseok's more than a little flustered by all the gratitude and gifts. He does bashfully accept various foodstuffs, some warm clothing and a bedroll since he’s sharing both with Chen, and a pack to keep it all in, crafted from good sheepskin made water resistant. The pack and the reindeer-pelt bedroll are not as waterproof as the sealskins Minseok’s gear is made from, but they’re also not as heavy, an added bit of comfort and security that’ll not be too great a burden for a less-conditioned traveler.

He also convinces the bootmaker to take back Chen’s well-fitted boots that’re not designed for the bleak and re-size the Walker boots he had traded for them, ending up with a pair both the correct size and warm enough to keep Chen’s feet from becoming frostbitten. Within two days, Minseok has Chen outfitted almost as well as a Walker himself, complete with a bellmetal version of a staff. 

A Walker’s staff, made from a pair of walrus tusks each half as long as a man is tall, is shod with bronze; a spike on one end and an iceblade jutting from below the globe of seashimmer that tops the other. It’s meant to probe snowdrifts, bridge crevasses, aid in footing and defense in addition to lighting the way, but it’s the uncanny light that laypeople seem to focus on, murmuring about glowing souls bobbing along the lychways for eternity. Jongdae’s staff lacks the eerie illumination, but it’ll perform the other functions well enough, grips wrapped well with insulating leather to keep the metal from chilling his hands in the way that ivory would not.

Then Minseok waits, hanging around the lychrow even though he could walk into any building in town and be welcomed. All the attention is more than a little exhausting, and he’s never sure what to say to those who thank him for saving their lives. He hardly feels like he saved anyone’s life—all he did was point out where the true heroes should rain down fire to burn away the shadows. 

He’s no hunter—he’d not directly engaged the creeping darkness. He’d shot only small lights, spending his body heat dearly, thrumming himself warm again before sending off the next volley. He’d done no real damage, only goaded the shadows into rushing more quickly towards him and therefore toward the town. 

And he’s not a cantor either, not even truly trained to do more than the thrumming, chanting, and low throat-harmonics that anyone can learn, regardless of ability to carry a proper tune. Minseok can sing all right, but he’s never considered that his calling. Not like Chen,  _ Jongdae, _ the one whose voice rings out clear and true whether he denies his proper name or not.

_ Jongdae _ saved Yon. The rest of the singers helped, that’s undeniable, but while some of the fireballs were sheep-sized, only a single one in each volley was bigger than a tundra cat. Only that one exploded on impact, throwing waves of heat far enough that at the tide’s closest point, Minseok could feel them. Only that fireburst splashed flame beyond the place it struck, sending outlying shadows hissing and scurrying into the deeper gloom.

All Minseok had done was his duty. He’d stood between Chen and danger so that Jongdae could stand between that danger and all of Elyxion. He’d kept the grieving boy with naught but a cradle-name alive so that the man Jongdae truly is could be tuned well enough to strike. 

He’d tried to explain this to people, but they were intent on showering him with praise and prizes regardless. So he’d only accepted what Jongdae would need on his upcoming quest, whatever that quest may be. And now he waits, as impatient as Tan to get moving again, for Jongdae to decide on a destination.

Jongdae has been spending all his time with the High Cantor in the Vessel, likely forging… something. What that could be, Minseok knows not, because when he’d made to accompany him, Jongdae had given him a wan little smile.

“Truly, Walker Minseok,” he’d said, the formal title already making Minseok take a step back. “Your time is your own. You needn’t follow me around all the time—even Tan goes off and does her own cat things when her Walker’s safe inside a shelter.”

It had stung, though Minseok managed not to show it. He’d only nodded and gone back to his sleeping cell to wait. He thought they’d been fitting well together, but evidently he’d not been as comfortable a companion to Jongdae as Jongdae had been to Minseok. Jongdae had welcomed Minseok’s company as an alternative to being alone—he’d said there’s nothing worse for him. But now he’s got less awkward people to spend time with, and Minseok should be well used to being alone. 

And most of the time, Minseok prefers solitude to small talk, hence his avoidance of the chattering townsfolk. Yet he hardly has the equivalent of any “cat things” to do when left to himself.

Like most Walkers, he’s not literate, having been taught his craft through demonstration and repetition. Reading and writing had never been needed skills but now he foolishly wishes he’d learned, simply to make use of the temple’s library to stave off the dullness of the wait. 

He’d known how to knit as a boy—everyone learns, because warmth is life on Elyxion. He could probably pick it up again, but he (and by extension, Jongdae) have been gifted with so much knitwear, producing any more would only be extra weight to carry. Perhaps it’d be worth smiling and nodding his way through more thanks and pub invitations to see if the leatherworker could use help rubbing oil into hides, or if there’s some fisherman who’d teach him to splice lines. It might at least give him some sort of minor purpose—he’s not used to being useless.

Minseok's glad that Jongdae has his uncle to comfort him after the loss of his family. He’s glad that he’s resting, eating well, learning, healing. But Minseok will be selfishly happy to be on the move again, and some lonely, petty part of him will be glad to have a bit of Jongdae’s attention, even if it’s only basic communication about striking camp. 

For all that Minseok's accustomed to solitude and silence, he has no relish for it. Jongdae, for all that he’s taciturn with Minseok, for all that he’s dulled and occasionally dampened by grief, is still a bright soul to be around. Minseok would welcome more time with him, but he’ll wait patiently and take what he’s given. For all that he has no relish for solitude, Minseok’s more than able to peaceably endure it. No one knows better than a Snow Walker how to endure.

⁽Ⲟ❨Ⲟ❨Ⲟ(Ⲟ)Ⲟ❩Ⲟ❩Ⲟ⁾

“Do you hear it, my boy?”

Eyes closed, Jongdae nods. The bell looks beautiful, but it sounds even better, strike note round and full and achingly sweet. When half-muffled, it’ll ring with a wistful echo, a celebration of what was with a longing for what should have been.

“It’s perfect,” he says, blinking extra moisture away after opening his eyes.

“I think so, too,” his Uncle Chanyeol agrees. “We’ll have a nice ceremony, do what can be done for the dead, re-open the temple once the prophecy is fulfilled and the flames are re-lit. Once Dominari is safe, send Walker Minseok back here to let me know when I should load up a cart. I’ve not traveled the coast road in a decade—I’m looking forward to hand-delivering the dirgebell of Dominari.”

“I look forward to receiving it,” Jongdae answers, tucking his head under his uncle’s chin when this results in an embrace.

“I’ve one more thing for you, dear nephew, though I’m not sure you’ll appreciate receiving this nearly as much.”

Face wry, Uncle Chanyeol pulls a black evenweave bag from a drawer. Jongdae already knows what’s inside, but he waits for his uncle to withdraw the Soundbow, translucent crimson stone set securely within a loop of filigree. The tiny key is hung from a chain that dangles from the clasp, unable to be misplaced as long as the Soundbow is intact.

“You seem uninterested in wearing it right now,” Uncle Chanyeol explains. “So this way everything will be ready whenever the time may come.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jongdae nods, accepting the black evenweave bag and tucking it deep into the pocket of his sheepskin pants. The twilight chill feels so much colder after being in the Vessel most of his waking hours over the last two weeks, but it’s comforting to see the faint twinkle of the stars. It’s a cold, clear night, exactly the sort that promises a spectacular demonstration of the song of the stars, but Jongdae’s not interested in admiring the eerie beauty of the aurora until he’s sure his family’s souls are dancing within it.

“Will you leave in the morning, then?” his uncle asks.

“If Walker Minseok's rested enough,” Jongdae says. 

He declines to mention that he’ll leave with or without the Walker, since his uncle seems to believe Jongdae needs to be shepherded. But the shadows are gone—there’s been no sign of them or anything else creeping about, so if the Walker has his own plans, Jongdae’s certainly not going to demand or even ask that he change them. Walker Minseok would be a useful escort, but Jongdae's sure that, with the danger cleared, he’ll be able to make the journey back to Dominari on his own.

“Rested enough?” Uncle Chanyeol laughs. “My dear boy, he’s practically gone stir-crazy waiting for us to finish the dirgebell.”

“Oh?” 

Jongdae’s not even seen more than passing glimpses of Minseok, so he’d assumed the Walker had been keeping himself well entertained. The townsfolk seem to adore him, so it’s probable that he’s had no lack of recreational companionship, in bed or out. Sure, he’s not a wordy guy, but words are unnecessary with a face as alluring and expressive as Minseok’s. He’d have merely to lift one of those perfectly-angled brows and he’d have a lapful of whatever pretty thing he fancied. Jongdae would’ve guessed the man to be blissed out rather than stir-crazy.

“I think Walkers are not very good at standing still.” Uncle Chanyeol’s smile is so toothy it’s hard not to smile back.

Jongdae lets his lips curve upward, a movement that has been feeling more natural again lately. He still misses his family dreadfully, and still sniffles to himself alone in his bed most nights. But singing his love for them into the dirgebell has helped. They forged him well, tuned him as best they could, and now it’s up to Jongdae to ring out strong and clear on their behalf, just like the bell they’d made to honor and remember the lost souls of Dominari.

“Well then, it’d be impolite to make him wait any more,” Jongdae states. “I’ll just need to get a few supplies—”

“He’s already done all that. I thought you knew—you’re wearing your new boots.”

Jongdae looks down at the strangely-familiar yet properly-fitting boots that had appeared outside his door two mornings after the successful defense of Yon. He’d assumed they’d been left by a grateful citizen, like the sheepsmilk sweets and the brightly-patterned scarf.

“I do like these boots,” Jongdae acknowledges. “If he’s responsible, I’ll have to thank him.”

“You’ve a whole set of kit to thank him for,” Uncle Chanyeol laughs. “Toben says he has two full Walker setups ready to go in his cell.”

“Oh. Well, that’s more than he needed to do, but I’m not about to complain.”

Having never had to get his own clothing before, he’d not been looking forward to all the shopping. Not that he thought himself incapable, but that it would’ve made him sad to have to dress himself after always being handed Jongdeok’s or their dad’s older things. It’ll be easier to simply wear whatever Minseok’s picked out for him, regardless of taste or fit. The Snow Walker’s clothes he’d borrowed had been made for warmth and durability, and that’s more important than looking good when nobody’s alive to see them.

“Had to keep himself busy somehow, I imagine,” Uncle Chanyeol says. “I’m sure you’ll leave well before sunup, so I’ll squeeze your ribs now and wish you safe travels. Send a list back with Walker Minseok of anything—and I do mean  _ anything— _ you might need to get things sorted at the temple once the Tongues are re-lit. I’d not like to figure out what to do with the silenced if the Tongues were gone forever.”

“Could you not simply feed them to the Blood?”

“Perhaps for our own silenced, but for all of Elyxion? The Blood would clot if we tried to feed it that much frozen flesh. And it seems wrong, somehow. The souls of the silenced should be sent up, not shoved down.”

Jongdae nods, looking at the slow stream of molten earth leaking from the Wound. “I’ll do all I can to re-light the Tongues quickly, Uncle. Thank you for tuning me up so I can ring out boldly for the ones I loved.”

“Ring out boldly for us all, dearest Jongdae.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

The lychway is familiar enough that stepping out onto it feels like what Minseok imagines coming home would be like, a warm embrace despite the chill of the bleak. Here Minseok knows who he is and what he’s to do. Here he’s someone needed, not an awkward, aimless nobody whose parents could not afford to feed him. 

He’s sure he’d missed his own family as much as Jongdae misses his, but that was almost a quarter-century ago now—he remembers nothing of his parents’ names, whether he’d had siblings that they’d chosen to keep instead of him, whether his mother had cried when she’d handed him over to the Temple of the Silent Heart. He’s sure he’d cried, though he has no memory of that, either. But all the wagonloads of small, discarded boys he’d ever witnessed had been teary-eyed, so it’s likely he had been, as well.

The bleak soon changes that. They all quickly learn that crying in the cold only leads to frozen tears burning against their skin, so even if they’ve no urge to prove to their older fellows—the ones that had chosen this path as young adults instead of being consigned to it as children—that they’re strong enough to be worth training, the sniveling stops within a week of their arrival at Locris. It helps that their bellies are usually full for the first time they can remember, that they’ve somewhere warm to sleep, all in a pile like a litter of winter wolves. 

And they’re given names—their own names, proper ones, despite the fact that they’re all way too young for the traditional naming ceremony. Cradle names are only meant to be unique within a family, not unique within a community, and a handful of them are so common as to be ubiquitous. So rather than being the third or fourth example of “the Kims’ Kou” or “the Parks’ Wei” or whatever his name had once been, he’d become Minseok, unique among the group of boys he’d been reared with, at least, if still rather common Elyxion-wide. 

It had been selected specifically for him by the High Cantor of the Heart, who’d sat with him for an hour about a week after he’d arrived. High Cantor Changmin had looked into Minseok’s eyes, asked him a few seemingly-silly questions, and given him “a name worthy of growing into,” as he’d done for every child surrendered to the temple at Locris. 

“It’s an old name,” the High Cantor had told him. “‘Min’ represents a stone called jade not found on Elyxion, though the ancestors revered it. And ‘Seok’ represents tin, one of the metals used to make bronze, a Gift of the Gullet.”

He’d come around the desk, crouching before Minseok in a scene that still plays out clear in his mind though he could not have been even four years old at the time. He’d met Minseok’s gaze, like he’d been speaking to an adult, and his words had stuck forever in a discarded child’s heart.

“You are precious already, my child, like that ancient stone, like every note in the harmony. And you shall become useful and durable, like the metal Elyxion relies on. Elyxion will recognize your utility, yet they will overlook your real worth. But your name shall always remind you of your true value, young Minseok.”

The High Cantor of the Silent Heart does this honor for each child the temple takes in and trains. If they do not survive to adulthood, succumbing to the rigors of training or the harshness of the bleak, they're at least sent off with an individual identity, wrapped well in thrice-blessed evenweave, in the care of one of their fully-trained fellows.

That knowledge had been a comfort on the coldest of training exercises.

Minseok supposes he should count himself lucky, to have no memories of any mother except Elyxion, no father except the High Cantor. He’s not at all sure what his cradle name had been, but he’s sure it was nothing so sweet as Chen, an old word for  _ dawn, _ given to much-hoped-for children who finally arrive like the sunrise after the longest night. Minseok’s cradle name had probably meant  _ mouth _ or  _ stomach _ or some other term that may be used endearingly for a loud or hungry child still very much beloved, but in the case of those struggling to feed even themselves is given as an all-but-blatant slur.

Still, as much as Minseok secretly envies children raised by the families they were born to, watching Jongdae grieve for the family he’d lost makes Minseok feel bad about being grateful for having no one to lose. The old High Cantor had passed into the dance when Minseok had been a teen, and while he’d felt the loss it had been quiet, dull, easily swept aside with the appointment of the new High Cantor, Leeteuk, who’d been one of Minseok’s favorite tutors. A Walker is meant to live to serve the silenced, developing only mild attachments to the living.

Except Minseok's currently doing the opposite of both of those things.

Jongdae had ignored Minseok for weeks while in Yon, but now that he’s once again the only available companion, Jongdae’s back to being polite, softly smiley, a bit bashful still about sharing a bedroll but unwilling to sleep alone despite the fact that he now carries his own. Warmth is evidently more important than independence while they rest, but Jongdae makes a dedicated effort to walking alone, hauling himself along with his staff instead of letting Minseok tug him down the lychway.

Minseok had thought Jongdae’s earlier silence to be a result of his grief, but though he’d been plenty chatty with the High Cantor of the Blood and even with his son, Jongdae's once again all but wordless in Minseok’s company. Accepting that the reluctant Spark is equally reluctant to socialize with an awkward Walker, Minseok keeps his own silence, breaking it only to quietly communicate about making or breaking camp and to chant the wards meant to keep them safe as they rest.

“Those wards are clapping creepy,” Jongdae comments on their second night outside of Yon. 

Startled by the rare unnecessary comment, Minseok looks up from the pack he’s rummaging in. “Oh. Sorry—they do sound rather funerary, but then again, it seems appropriate for my usual wards.”

“They sound funerary because they  _ are,” _ Jongdae states. “I was too out of it to notice before, but they’re a declaration that everything inside the circle is dead.”

Minseok shrugs. He’d never truly cared what the words literally mean—he cares only about chanting them accurately. “Tan’ll protect us from anything that may wish to feed on the dead,” he states. “The wards are designed to protect us from what may desire to feed on the living.”

“Like I said—creepy.”

Minseok shrugs again, handing Jongdae his portion of the evening’s cured mutton. They chew in silence, then crawl into the bedroll together, settling back to back as Jongdae prefers. It’s a little awkward for Minseok to face away from a bedfellow, but it’s probably for the best. For over a decade, Minseok’s body has had only one type of experience following waking up in someone’s arms or with someone in his. Jongdae has been the only one in his bedroll unenthusiastically—had he traveled companionably with fellow Walkers uninterested in sharing sex, they’d slept in separate bedrolls, squeezed side by side between their animal companions. But Jongdae's used to more warmth than a true Walker, so Minseok will continue to provide without complaint. 

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

Traveling with Minseok again reminds Jongdae of the last time he’d managed to outgrow one of Jongdeok’s sweaters. He’d kept wearing it even when it’d barely fit him anymore, comfortable because it was familiar, uncomfortable because it restricted his movement.

Now every night Jongdae lies back to back with the continuously generous Snow Walker, both basking in the comfortable warmth of the closest thing he could call a friend anymore and chafing at the fact that they’ll never grow closer than they currently are.

He’s a duty for Minseok. The Snow Walker is putting his own life on hold to chaperone Jongdae around, when in the absence of his usual duties he must at least have a family, friends, a home to get back to. He’s not said anything about them, but everyone comes from somewhere. Minseok had not spontaneously manifested outside the collapsing temple merely to be Jongdae’s eerie lychway guide.

Especially because Jongdae has no true need of a guide—the paths are straight, and as Jongdae’s now alert enough to see, the crossroads are marked with pictures. A Ꮑ indicates the way back to Yon, while ◡ seems to point towards Dorus. And, on the sixth day out of Yon, they encounter a sign at a crossroads pointing south, labeled with ᕬ.

Whether it’s meant to indicate the curved dome over the bellcote or a tongue projecting up from the ground Jongdae knows not. Yet it also matters not—he immediately recognizes it as  _ home. _

Jongdae almost runs for the marked path, yelping in surprise and anger when his feet are swept from beneath him. Glaring up at Minseok and the outstretched staff in his hands, Jongdae picks himself up from the icy ground.

“Look, I know you think yourself my shepherd or something, but I clapping care nothing for any clapping prophecy! I know the refrain, I can relight the Tongues without all this pomp. I’ll see to my family—”

“I’d follow wherever you lead, whether you follow the prophecy or not,” Minseok interrupts. “But I’ll not allow you to throw your life away.”

He lifts a chin toward the path Jongdae had almost bolted down. Tan is half-crouched in the center of it, fur puffed and ears flickering between flattened and alert. The tundra cat hisses, and when he moves up to stand beside her, Jongdae can see it—a flicker of gloom against gloom.

Jongdae scowls, lifting his arm up and back to blast those clapping shadows back to wherever they’d come from, but Minseok's suddenly there, catching his arm and clapping a palm over Jongdae’s lips.

“I know the urge for vengeance is strong,” the Snow Walker says, huge dark eyes filling Jongdae’s vision. “But the urge to survive must be stronger.”

“I can fight,” Jongdae spits, but Minseok shakes his head.

“You’ll chill yourself, and I’m only able to give you so much warmth before I’m too chilled to be of use.”

“We can thrum, build up our warmth—”

“And deplete our energy, for which we’ve little food left to restore it.”

“The lychgates—”

“There are no lychgates between here and Dorus,” Minseok states. “This stretch of the bleak is uninhabitable until we reach the wool coast, and there’s no game here in midwinter for Tannie to feed us. If we burn ourselves out here—for possibly no useful effect, since we’ve no idea how many shadows block the path—we’ll not make it to the next place of safety before we freeze or starve.”

Jongdae’s arm sags along with his shoulders, and Minseok lets him drop to his knees beside Tan.

“I’m truly sorry, Chen,” Minseok murmurs. “If I could clear the way for you to return now to your home, if I could help you to send your family to the dance without the complications of this prophecy, I’d do so even if it cost my life. But I’ll not allow the attempt to cost you yours.”

“Why not?” Jongdae almost sobs. “I care nothing for saving the clapping world. Someone else can do it—someone with a reason to survive the process. I just want to be where I belong, with my family. I just want to go  _ home.” _

Minseok crouches beside him to wipe his face with the end of his scarf, whisking away the snot and tears threatening to freeze on his skin. 

“I’m sorry,” Minseok says again, voice soft as lambswool. “Perhaps we’ll learn something from the High Cantor of the Hide that’ll allow us to reclaim the Temple of the Tongues quickly.”

“You’ve no actual belief of that,” Jongdae huffs. “You just would have me get up and walk again.”

Minseok shrugs. “It’s possible,” he says. “But you’re right—I think it unlikely. I think it more likely that the Resonance means for you to follow the prophecy fully, that simple flames will not be enough to successfully see to your family. The Resonance seems to have written more notes into this symphony than a single strain.”

_ The Resonance can go toll itself, _ Jongdae thinks, but he still has enough self-preservation not to say it out loud. The Resonance is said not to be vindictive, but Jongdae still has his doubts that this is not all some punishment for his own hubris, inadequacy, failure. Adding irreverence to the list of his flaws seems unlikely to be worth the momentary satisfaction of the curse.

As he stares down the lychway to the shadows blotting out Jongdae’s entire life, the urge to laugh springs into his chest like a harpoon into a walrus. No more able to stop the sound than a walrus can stop the bright blood from bubbling out of a lethal wound, Jongdae closes his eyes as wry laughter shakes his frame.

He should’ve listened to the old children’s ballads better. In every tale handed down from the ancients, choosing to satisfy oneself instead of serving others is never rewarded. Jongdae may feel like he’s trying to serve others by seeing to his family, but evidently the Resonance disagrees. So, like some cautionary song meant to impart morality to the young, Jongdae must give in order to receive. 

“Fine,” he says, taking the end of his scarf into his own mittened hands to swipe renewed tears away from his eyes. “Fine—let’s go to Dorus. The sooner we can sing to the clapping stars or whatever, the sooner I can see to those I actually care about.” 

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾


	3. Cue Note

#  Cue࿄Note

Minseok has been to Dorus several times before, but it never fails to surprise him the way it remains entirely unseen until they crest the edge of the polished ice bowl that protectively cups the town below. The glyph that marks the signs ostensibly resembles this bowl but ever since Minseok’s first visit, he’s inclined to see it as a closed eye, the reflexive reaction upon anyone’s first sight of Dorus. 

Jongdae’s wearing Minseok’s parka today, since the hood is equipped with a loose-knit lining that can be unfolded over the top half of the face, screening out the excess light bounced from the sides of the bowl onto the black basalt buildings of the town. In the summer, the town is warmer even than Yon, the near-continuous daylight keeping the heat absorbing into the rock, but in the winter, the town only gets enough sun to be blinding for a few short hours each day.

“Whoa,” Jongdae breathes as the pair of them wait for their eyes to adjust. 

“Indeed,” Minseok answers, shading his eyes with the ruff of Jongdae’s parka and the edge of his hand. “We can wait in the lychrow for a few hours to lessen the glare before we make the descent.”

“Is it more difficult in full sun?”

“I know not,” Minseok says when he realizes Jongdae’s not seeing his shrug. “I’ve never done it before.”

“Oh. Right. You’d not have, if this is not your home district.” Jongdae shifts to look at Minseok instead of the breathtaking view. “Which is your home district? I feel like I should’ve asked way before now.”

“I’ve no home district. I go where I’m needed most,” Minseok says, turning his attention to the stairs carved into the side of the basin, up which the silenced of Dorus must be carried before they’re left to await their escorts. There are three silenced already occupying the cells of the combination lychrow/sepulchre, so Minseok assumes Jongdae would prefer to attempt the descent rather than keep company with the dead.

“You’ve no home district?” Jongdae asks. “I thought all Walkers were assigned one when they graduated or whatever it’s called when your training is finished.”

Minseok snorts, testing the icy steps with the spiked heel of his staff. “We do not graduate, we  _ survive. _ There’s no ceremony—anyone who returns from the bleak after the final test is a Snow Walker, assigned to the district that gave them up to serve the silenced. Each district reaps what they sow.”

“So why’ve you no home district?”

Fighting the urge to curl a lip, Minseok turns back to his charge. “Because I’ve no home,” he says, unsure if it’s satisfaction or regret he feels when Jongdae’s brows draw inward. “I became a dreg too young to remember the name of the town I’d been born in, if I ever knew it.”

He’s barely turned back around when Jongdae’s voice comes again.

“A dreg?”

Minseok continues his careful descent without pause. He’s sure the usually-quiet boy’s talking so much now because he’s anxious, chattering about random topics to distract himself from the task at hand. He’s willing to play a game of questions to calm his ward into following him easily.

“Dominari would have no need to produce Snow Walkers, but you’d no dregs at all? Discarded boys given to the temple?”

“Discarded? What—who would discard a child?”

“Someone unable to feed one,” Minseok answers, huffing wryly at Jongdae’s appalled tone. “Not a problem in Dominari, but food is sometimes scarce in parts of Elyxion farther from the unfrozen sea.”

“So people just… give their kids to the Walkers?”

Minseok shrugs. “Better than leaving them to starve. Or for a whole family to starve because the adults are too weak from hunger to work anymore.”

“In Dominari, food is shared whether people work or not.”

“Which is easy, when food comes rolling up with every tide,” Minseok says, heedless if Jongdae can see his nod. “Dominari probably kept half of Elyxion in salted seal, walrus hide ropes, and lamp fuel all by itself. One more reason to restore the Tongues, the temple, and therefore the town.”

Jongdae merely hums an acknowledgment, so Minseok focuses his attention on the descent. The steps are well-maintained—they’d need to be, if bodies are carried up them regularly—but they’re still new to Minseok and he’d rather not become a body himself. He’s got a job to do, a charge to protect, and he’ll see it through whether Jongdae wishes him to or not.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

“I’m truly sorry, noble Walkers, but you’re not to come down into the town. The people are too superstitious. Were insufficient provisions left at the lychrow?”

Legs protesting the previous hour’s careful descent, Jongdae looks up at a man who must be the High Cantor, standing at the foot of the steps in robes the color of sunrise.

Ahead of him, Minseok’s already nodding, moving toward the wall to allow Jongdae ample room to safely step past him.

“I’m no Walker,” Jongdae states, lifting the hood’s lining from his face to glare at the High Cantor. “I’m Kim Jongdae, son of Kim Junmyeon, late Grand High Cantor of the Supreme Resonance, sent here by High Cantor Park Chanyeol to seek your aid in the interpretation of the Spark prophecy.”

The High Cantor blinks. He’s not much taller than Jongdae, built slim, eyes kind beneath the stiffened hood of his robes that extends far enough to shade his face. 

“Ah! Junmyeon’s great bell. So he truly thinks you’re  _ the _ Great Bell?”

“I know not what he thought—as I said, my father is… no longer living. But we’re here to find out what  _ you _ think on the matter.”

“No longer living? My sincere condolences—your father was a great man. But if you’re here, who’s succeeded him? And why have you come by the lychway instead of the main roads?”

“I’d be happy to go into all that detail for you,” Jongdae says, though he’s not at all going to enjoy the process of recounting the literal collapse of everything he’s known. “But perhaps we could do it inside somewhere? Hopefully over a meal—we ran out of food twelve hours ago.”

“Oh, of course, my boy—do come with me and we’ll get you warm and fed. There’s always a pot of stew bubbling at the guesthouse.”

Jongdae offers a grateful smile as he reaches level ground, turning back to see how far behind him the silent-moving Snow Walker is. But Minseok’s very far behind him indeed—because he’s headed back up the stairs.

“Minseok,” Jongdae calls.

The Walker turns, lifting a curious brow.

“Where are you going?”

“To the lychrow, of course,” Minseok laughs. “Where else would I be going? I’m not leaving you here, fret not.”

“You  _ are _ leaving me,” Jongdae protests with an awkward chuckle. “Surely you’ve no intent to eat a cold meal and then sleep in a cold sepulchre with the silenced.”

“Of course I do.”

“No,” Jongdae says, shaking his head. “Come eat a hot meal—you’ve more than earned it.”

“I’m not welcome,” Minseok says simply, turning back up the stairs. “Go and learn what you must.” 

“Jongdae?”

The High Cantor is watching this exchange, bemused. “This Walker is your lover?”

Jongdae’s cheeks flush hot. “What? No—he just. He saved my life. Several times. He thinks he’s part of the prophecy, that he’s meant to protect me or something.” 

“Interesting. Let’s go fill your belly, then we’ll see what the ancient texts might have to say about that.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

The library at the Temple of the Hide is two stories up, just beneath the bellcote with its modest ring of bells. 

“The sounds echo from the icy skin of the bowl, making them resound far more than they otherwise would,” High Cantor Byun Baekhyun explains when Jongdae comments. “And by keeping our scrolls high and dry, we’re able to preserve them for longer. Copying them to fresh vellum takes time and always invites the possibility for errors in transcription.”

The colored glass windows send the hues of the sunset dancing across the High Cantor’s skin as he strides to a particular shelf. The library is obviously well tended, with no excess dust or cobwebs in sight. The High Cantor brings several scrolls over to a ledge of polished basalt that juts out from one wall to form a shiny black desk.

“Now, let’s see…” The High Cantor says, then lilts a few notes. Small glass globes hanging from the ceiling begin to glow, adding their light to the sunset streaming through the glass. 

“Whoa,” Jongdae says. “How come the only Resonance I was ever taught were hymns and cancions rather than useful things like making fire or light?”

“The Great Bell would have no need for mere trifles such as illuminating moonglobes,” the High Cantor dismisses. “Your voice, if you’re truly meant to live up to your name, is surely destined for far greater things.” He pulls a scroll from a rack. “We should start with the original transcription—it’s ornate and confuses a chorale, but it’s probably more meaningful if we’re trying to decipher rather than sing it.”

𝑇ℎ𝑒 _𝔖𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔏𝔦𝔣𝔢:_ 𝐸𝑙𝑦𝑥𝑖𝑜𝑛 _’_ 𝑠 _ℌ𝔬𝔭𝔢_ 


𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑢𝑡𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑟𝑒 _,_  
𝐿𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 _𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱_ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 _._  
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑚 𝑛𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 _,_  
_𝔅𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫_ 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑦𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 _._  
𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ _𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔩_ 𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑚  
𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑢𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑒 _,_  
𝑇ℎ𝑒 _𝔰𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢_ 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 _𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔢𝔰_ 𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡 _,_  
𝑃𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 _ℜ𝔢𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢!_ 


𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 _𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱_ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑒 _,_  
𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑣𝑒𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑑 _𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢_ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑢𝑛𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘 _._  
𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 _𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔳𝔢_ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 _𝔠𝔩𝔢𝔣_ 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑢𝑟𝑒 _._  
𝐴𝑠 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑙𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 _𝔰𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔨_ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 _𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔨_  
𝐵𝑦 𝑡𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 _𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤_ 𝑡𝑜 _𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤_  
𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 _𝔰𝔲𝔫'𝔰 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔯𝔞𝔶𝔰_ 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 _._  
_𝔖𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔨_ 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 _𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔰_ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 _,_  
𝐵𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑜 _ℜ𝔢𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔢!_ 


𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ _𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡_ 𝑖𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑠 _𝔥𝔦𝔡𝔢,_  
𝑆𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 _𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔰_ 𝑖𝑛 _𝔟𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰_ 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡 _._  
𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ _𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔡_ 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑓 𝑖𝑛 _𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤_ 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑖𝑑𝑒 _,_  
𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑛 _’_ 𝑠 𝑖𝑐𝑦 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑝 𝑖𝑠 _𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫_ 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑡 _._  
𝑊ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑑𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 _,_  
𝐴𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑠 _𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥'𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢._  
_𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢’_ 𝑠 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑔𝑖𝑓𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 _𝔡𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢,_  
_ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱_ 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑡𝑜 _𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱_ 𝑖𝑛 _ℜ𝔢𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢!_ 


_𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔰_ 𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑏𝑦 𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟 _𝔞𝔲𝔟𝔞𝔡𝔢,_  
𝑇ℎ𝑢𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑏𝑒 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 _._  
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 _𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢_ 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 _,_  
𝑇𝑜 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤 _𝔰𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔨_ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑐𝑐𝑢𝑚𝑏 _._  
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 _𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔩_ 𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑛 _,_  
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑟 _𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔢𝔰_ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 _._  
𝐴𝑠 _𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔳𝔢_ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 _𝔠𝔩𝔢𝔣_ 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑡 _,_  
𝐸𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑙𝑦 _𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢_ 𝑖𝑠 _ℜ𝔢𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔫𝔱!_ 


“Well, that only makes it more confusing,” Jongdae grumbles.

“Only because you know not what it means,” the High Cantor laughs.

“Of course I know not what it means!” Jongdae huffs. “That’s why I’m here.”

“No, you’re here because after the Blood comes the Hide, see? I suspect this stanza deals with locations.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting I need to be swallowed by something.”

The High Cantor’s eyes take on a dangerous glint. “Well, if you’d like to be swallowed, I’m certainly willing to accommodate.”

“No, thanks,” Jongdae says faster than he’s ever said anything in his life. “Are you not like, my uncle or something?”

“You may certainly address me as such. In fact, I insist on it. And if you’re not interested in sharing my own accommodations, you’re of course welcome to stay at the guesthouse, instead—it’ll be warmer than the lychrow and yours will be the only body in the room.”

“No, thank you—I need to get back to Minseok. He’ll be colder without me, and it’s not fair to subject him to that when he’s only here on my account.”

“You said he accompanied you without invitation or request.”

“He did, but—”

“Then he’s here on his own account. You’ll be near at hand in the morning for further study if you take your rest here, rather than wasting an hour climbing each way.” 

“I’ll not leave Minseok to the cold alone,” Jongdae states firmly. “And I’ve hot stew for him. He’s been eating trail rations just as much as I have.”

“He’s used to the cold, solitude, and preserved food,” the High Cantor dismisses. “There's no need for you to suffer to grant him a mild reprieve from the lifestyle he himself has chosen.”

“He chose it not,” Jongdae says, eyes on the bowl of lamb and bearberry stew in his hands. “He was given to the Walkers as a kid.”

“The lifestyle his parents chose for him, then,” the High Cantor corrects with a shrug. “The point is, he’s a Walker and that’s how Walkers live. It’s no hardship for him, Jongdae, not like it is for you.”

“Being used to it is not the same as deserving it,” Jongdae says. “I’ll return tomorrow. I’ll be at the bottom of the steps an hour after I wake.”

The High Cantor’s face is dominated by a boxy grin. “Great. Bring your Walker with you—whether or not he’s part of your prophecy, if he inspires such loyalty he deserves to wait in a warm room with a belly full of stew while you and I comb through ancient words that may or may not be wisdom.”

Jongdae blinks several times, then narrows his eyes. “What, this was some sort of test, then? For the prophecy or something?”

The High Cantor nods, not at all abashed. “You’re meant to have a selfless heart, are you not? And here you are ready to walk an hour up steps in the icy wind to bring your companion hot stew that’ll not even be hot when you get there. You’ll not let him sleep alone in the cold, and you’re irritated that I implied that’s all he deserves.”

“Minseok deserves the world,” Jongdae asserts. “But I’m not truly selfless. I bring him food, claim to sleep beside him to share my warmth with him, when in reality I’m preventing my own suffering. I’m not used to sleeping alone. Dominari was always so alive, and silence and solitude just remind me of how lifeless it is now. With someone else’s breathing coloring the darkness, I can pretend I’m once again part of a whole.”

“You are part of a whole, Jongdae, Great Bell of Elyxion. You are part of all of us. Our breath is yours, and your heart is clearly his.”

Jongdae tilts his head. “My heart is whose?” 

The High Cantor’s boxy smile renews. “Go to your Walker, Jongdae. Bring him to the guesthouse on the morrow.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

The heavy door to the stone cell is shrugged open with a grunt, and Minseok has a greeting ready in his mouth before he’s fully dislodged from sleep. It’s not uncommon for Walkers to come upon each other on the road, heading in opposite directions, and it’s always polite to separate oneself from the silenced as soon as possible so the new arrival may decide to join the warmth or make their own.

But the second thing Minseok's aware of is the smell of lamb, and that could only have been brought from the town below. Which means this visitor is probably—

“Chen?”

“Sorry to wake you. I brought you some stew. But, uh, you’ve not to eat it now, I guess. You seem comfortable, and you must be exhausted—”

“Why are you not down in Dorus? Learn everything already?” 

“Er, no. I’m to go back tomorrow.  _ We’re _ to go back tomorrow. The High Cantor says you can come down—it’s probably going to take a while, and—”

“You’d no need to climb all this way to tell me that. Could’ve sent someone for me in the morning,” Minseok yawns, “but I’m truly quite content to wait for you here.”

“I know, but you’re also content with jerky even though I’ve seen you devour a proper roast. I’m not leaving you up here just because you’d never complain. You deserve to be properly warm, to eat proper food. So, uh. I’ll just leave this here, I guess, and take the next cell down—”

Minseok fails to keep a smile from curving his lips even though his eyes are still firmly shut. He shifts further towards the wall, not minding the kiss of the chill basalt against his shoulder blades.

“Come here, you fool.”

A beat of silence. “What?”

If he were more awake, he’d question it more, wonder if he misread the situation, if he were overstepping his role as escort. But sleep-softened, his mind’s not alert enough to countermand his heart.

“I said, come here,” Minseok repeats. “May as well share with me if you came all this way—it’s easier and warmer.”

Another pause. “All right,” Jongdae says.

There’s some rustling and quiet cursing and once a panicky yelp, possibly from suddenly rediscovering the other occupant of this cell. But then Jongdae’s squirming into the sleeping furs beside him, all frozen feet and chilled hands and cold, runny nose that he tucks against the heated junction between Minseok’s neck and shoulder. He does not suggest they sleep back to back, so Minseok wraps both arms around him, tangles his warm legs with Jongdae’s cool ones, and pulls his charge close.

“Good night, Chenny,” he murmurs, already chasing down sleep again.

He barely hears the answering, “G’night, Seok.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

As is usually the case, Minseok's brought to wakefulness by the fullness of his bladder. And the awareness of the heaviness between his legs. And the warm body in his arms. Another hard length is resting against his, and Minseok’s hands move of their own accord, sliding from ribs to waist.

Consciousness returns in time to keep him from sliding his hands from waist to hips and then to ass, pulling his bedfellow against himself in a not at all subtle invitation.

This is no fellow Walker. This is Jongdae, and he’s in Minseok’s sleeping furs for warmth, not sex. 

Minseok’s stirring has roused Jongdae, too, so Minseok has only to endure a few minutes of stretching and shifting before Jongdae's awake enough to be fully aware of his surroundings. As always upon achieving this state, Jongdae stiffens.

“Sorry,” Jongdae mutters, voice thick with sleep. “Should’ve used my own sleeping furs, at least—”

“Truly, Chen, I mind it not.”

Jongdae pushes away from him anyway, just like he always does. “You mind nothing,” he dismisses. “You indulge me more than my—well. You indulge me a lot, but that makes no excuse for me to keep imposing. And, uh. You can just call me by my proper name if you wish—you know what it is, now, so. ”

“I call you Chen because you flinch every time someone calls you Jongdae,” Minseok states, the boy proving his point by wincing at the name that ties him to the prophecy he’s reluctant to fulfill. “Besides, Chen truly suits you.”

“My brother and sister still called me ChenChen,” Jongdae murmurs from the darkness beside him. “Jihyo said my smile was like a double sunrise.”

“It is,” Minseok agrees. “And you’re not imposing. Not only did I take up this duty despite your protests, I’ve always appreciated sleeping close with my fellows when the choice was available. Sharing warmth with you is no hardship—though you hardly had to climb all the way up here last night for that alone. I’m sure they’d have let you sleep in town.”

“Oh!” There’s rustling as Jongdae sits up. “I came because I wished to bring you some stew. Uncle Baekhyun said it’s still good cold.” 

Minseok reaches for the ivory staff beside the bed, tugging free the leather pouch covering the glass ball of sea shimmer.

“Thanks,” Jongdae says, quickly finding the bowl of stew where he’d left it on one of the ledges carved into the basalt of the cell. He hands it to Minseok, sitting beside him on the bedroll. “I’m to bring you back down into Dorus with me,” he adds before accepting the spoonful of cold stew Minseok offers him. “The High Cantor—Uncle Baekhyun—says you can wait for me in the guesthouse, where there’s hot stew and a softer bed than a stone slab. Plus, you know—no silenced sharing the room.”

Minseok smiles at Jongdae’s furtive glance at their inert cellmate. The body is wrapped well, entirely inoffensive to Minseok after spending half his life attending the silenced. But it’s understandable that Jongdae has had too much of death to ever be truly at ease, though he usually does a valiant job of not voicing his discomfort.

“I’ll accompany you if you wish,” Minseok says. “But you need not feel obligated—I’m not uncomfortable here.”

“You’d be more comfortable down there, though,” Jongdae states.

“Physically, yes, probably,” Minseok nods. “But even were I to stay in whatever warm room I’m given the use of, I’m reluctant to make others uncomfortable with my presence.”

The lychlight provides enough icy purple glow to see Jongdae’s face fall, so Minseok concludes with, “but of course, if my charge would have me closer to hand, at hand is where I’ll be.”

Jongdae rolls his eyes. “I’d not have you do it for  _ me— _ I’d have you do it for your own sake. Why sit up here in adequate conditions to mollify superstitious folk when you could be sharing better conditions with me? You’re just as deserving of comfortable rest and hot meals as I am, and there’s even the possibility of proper baths.”

Minseok smiles. “Ah, so you’d rather not be stuck with a stinky Snow Walker,” he teases as Jongdae splutters. 

It’s a more playful reason than what Minseok suspects is the real one—Jongdae’d not like to feel alone in this new place, and if he feels as though he’s doing Minseok a favor, he’d not feel so much as though he’s using Minseok. So Minseok nods more seriously, resting a hand on Jongdae’s shoulder.

“I’ll go down to Dorus with you and wait in this guesthouse. Thank you for thinking so highly of me.”

The smile that breaks over Jongdae’s face at this is full of joy and relief, like the promise of a new day.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

“Your Walker is very handsome. Do you think he’d fancy a dalliance while you’re in town?”

Jongdae can only blink at Uncle Baekhyun. “With you?” he eventually squeaks.

Uncle Baekhyun bats his eyes back at Jongdae. “Why not with me?”

“Are you not my dad’s age?” Jongdae asks, fighting not to curl a lip.

“I’m years younger,” Uncle Baekhyun scoffs. “And what’s the harm, anyway, if he’s an adult and returns my interest?”

“Because there’s only one room at the guesthouse.”

“Ah, but he’s welcome to share mine. You’ll be plenty warm enough in the guest house without him.”

Jongdae has no argument to that. He has the urge to argue anyway.

But instead of arguing, Jongdae merely trots along beside Uncle Baekhyun as he leads him into various towers of black stone, fetching scrolls and manuscripts back to his warm, well-lit study for further examination. 

It’s hard for Jongdae to concentrate, though. Every time Uncle Baekhyun smiles or laughs, all Jongdae can think about is whether Minseok would find it attractive. Whether Minseok even likes boys—the rumor is that Walkers all share pleasure with each other whether or not they’re also interested in girls, but rumor is not necessarily reality. But reality is that a “stunningly handsome” Walker in their lychrow had turned Jihyo down. Was it Minseok? He’d said he’d not gotten familiar with Jongdae’s sister. Was that because she’d not offered? He’d turned down Jongdae’s pathetic offer, but that only makes him decent, not necessarily uninterested. He’d not said that he only liked girls, only that he’d not take his pleasure at someone else’s expense.

And why does Jongdae not know this already? He sleeps pressed against the man every night. He’d assumed it not awkward for the Walker because it’s said that they all share warmth when possible, and Minseok himself had said he minds it not. But does Minseok enjoy it? He’d held Jongdae so readily last night. Does Minseok wish for something more?

Does Jongdae?

“Jongdae?”

Startled by the sudden voice—that his memory informs him is actually not sudden and has in fact been calling him several times before he properly noticed—Jongdae jumps a bit, lifting guilty eyes to Uncle Baekhyun.

“Sorry. Did you find out what the bells the stave is?”

“It’s a row of five parallel horizontal lines on which musical notes are written—”

“I know that!” Jongdae chuckles in response to Uncle Baekhyun’s instructive tone. “Is that what it means in the prophecy?” 

“I’ve no idea. But as I said, I found another treatise on the subject, written by the original hymnwriter’s grandchild. They’ve a lot to say about this ‘Seer Zitao’ and suggest many possible interpretations.”

Uncle Baekhyun drops another huge tome on the desk—so many sheep must have contributed their skins to make that amount of vellum. Temple of the Hide, indeed. Jongdae resigns himself to reading as much as he’s able before the end of the day, but when evening hunger makes itself known, his thoughts fly to the guesthouse and therefore to Minseok.

Evidently Uncle Baekhyun’s thoughts have run in the same direction.

“Would you and your Walker care to join me for dinner in the domos?”

Jongdae shrugs. “I’ll not agree to anything on Minseok’s behalf, but he seems to prefer not to intrude.”

“If he’s invited, he’s not intruding. Let’s go ask him, shall we?”

All Jongdae can truly say to that is, “Of course.” 

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

“I’m afraid I’ve nothing to add to discussions of prophecy,” Minseok says when he answers the guestroom door to the High Cantor of the Hide and a nervously-shifting Jongdae. “The food provided by this guesthouse is already a treat, there’s no need to include an uneducated Walker at your fine table.”

“I’m not asking a random Snow Walker to dinner, I’m asking  _ you. _ Minseok, is it?”

Minseok nods.

“Minseok, would you do us the honor?”

The High Cantor is smiling, but Minseok’s not looking at him. His eyes are on Jongdae, who seems truly uncomfortable with the entire situation.

Minseok’s not great at reading people, seeing as most of the company he keeps is either silenced or all bundled up except when they’re fumbling together in the dark. Yet Minseok would rather not damage this new thing between them where Jongdae imagines himself to be taking care of Minseok, as if Minseok truly cares what he eats as long as it gives him energy and fails to make him sick. As if he truly cares where he sleeps as long as he wakes up in the morning.

He does care about Jongdae, though, so he studies his charge carefully, trying to determine what answer he should give to this unexpected invitation. Is Jongdae ashamed to have Minseok at the table with him, now that he’s back among people he finds worthy of talking to? But he’d been so adamant about Minseok coming down into Dorus, that he deserved good food, so it must be something else. 

“I’m honored by the request,” Minseok states carefully, watching Jongdae’s face as he does. “But perhaps I’ll join you another time.” Jongdae had said their research might take a while, so if it’s important for him to dine with this High Cantor, he will—after Jongdae tells him why the idea makes him so squirmy.

He seems to have said the right thing, because Jongdae looks relieved. The High Cantor looks more amused than he does disappointed, so hopefully Minseok’s not made things more difficult for Jongdae.

“Ah, well, of course you’re always welcome at my table whenever you should feel comfortable enough to join us. Jongdae, will you still keep me company as we dine? Nobody else is willing to listen to my theories about the Ancestors’ use of internal rhyming schemes to emphasize key passages in the—”

“Of course, Uncle Baekhyun,” Jongdae answers, tossing an awkward smile back at Minseok before allowing himself to be led away.

Minseok shuts the door again and frowns at it. If he’s going to be doing this much waiting around, he truly ought to learn an itinerant trade, or at least how to read.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

The food of Dorus is mostly like what Jongdae had grown up with, dominated by mutton instead of seal or walrus but otherwise supplemented with fish, berries, tubers, and seaweed much like it had been at home. But eating with the High Cantor of Dorus is much louder than eating with his family, though there are only three of them. 

Uncle Baekhyun’s treble (and, evidently, close companion) is a bright, smiling woman who insists he call her Auntie Taeyeon.

“I knew your mother, Joohyun, from when we trained together at Lydos. Then she went to Dominari to marry Junmyeon and I came here to keep Baekhyun from either getting lost in the libraries or setting them on fire.”

“I’d do no such thing,” Uncle Baekhyun protests. “Jongdae, tell her how safe and organized the libraries are.”

“Very safe and organized,” Jongdae says obligingly after swallowing his mouthful of mutton sausage.

“Pah. Only because I keep them safe and organized for you.”

“And you’re doing a great job, and I appreciate it—have some more bearberry compote, I know it’s your favorite.”

“Bribery is ineffective when I’m the one that made the compote in the first place.”

Jongdae hides a smile as Uncle Baekhyun mimes great offense. Watching them bicker affectionately reminds him so much of Jihyo, and he misses her and the rest of his family as if a note were absent from the scales of his life. Sure, he can play plenty of lovely melodies on the notes that remain, especially if he takes care to avoid the one that’s not there. But he forgets sometimes, feels that things are normal until the melody is suddenly interrupted with silence where there should instead be song.

He’s afraid it’ll never become less jarring.

So despite the upbeat nature of his dinner and the delicious food he’s served, Jongdae's more than a little melancholic when he returns to the small room under the eaves where Minseok's waiting for him.

Except Minseok’s not waiting for him. He’s sitting at a table in the public room with a pretty young woman—the guesthouse keeper’s daughter, perhaps—who is patiently going over something drawn on an earthwax tablet with a stylus. When Jongdae enters the room, Minseok’s cheeks are flushed, because of his proximity to the tallow lamp or to his bright-eyed companion, Jongdae decides not to stick around to find out.

So he merely nods and waves when Minseok looks up and calls his name, heading to the guest room and putting himself to bed. He’s barely under the covers when Minseok enters the room with a hesitant call of his name.

“It’s fine,” Jongdae says in response. “I’ll be plenty warm enough in here without you.”

“…What?” 

“If you stay the night with your pretty friend, it’s fine with me.” He hopes the lie’s not audible because he’d rather not examine why it’s a lie, why he’s so unhappy about Minseok seeking pleasure with others in Dorus when he’d assumed that’s how the Walker had been amusing himself in Yon.

“My… do you mean Seohyun? She’s the schoolmarm. We’re not dallying—she, ah. She’s teaching me to, well… read.” 

Jongdae sits up, having been cringing in anticipation of the ending of that sentence, only for it to arrive somewhere entirely unexpected. He stares into the darkness by the door as if the intensity of his gaze will allow him to see without light.

“You’re unable to read?”

“I’ve never needed to.”

Suddenly the glyphs on the lychway signs make much more sense. “Oh,” he says. “I can teach you.”

“No need,” Minseok dismisses, moving in the darkened room silent and sure-footed as his giant tundra cat. “I know you’re busy.”

“I’m not too busy to help the guy who keeps saving my life,” Jongdae huffs. “But why learn to read now, if you’ve gone… however many years of your life without needing it?”

“I’m twenty-eight,” Minseok says between the rustling of fabric that means he’s undressing. “And I’ve still no need for it. I merely would enjoy it. Because our kit is mostly new—nothing needs mending.”

Guilt swamps Jongdae like an icy ocean wave. “Oh, clappers, Minseok—Uncle Chanyeol said you’d been sorta stir-crazy waiting for us to finish the dirgebell, but you’d no impatience to get on the road, did you? You were just dead bored.”

The bed dips and Minseok slides in beside him. “I’d patience. I’ve patience here, too. I’m content to wait for you to learn what you need to. I’d wait even if you were only playing around, to be honest.”

“Because you’ve nowhere else to go?” Jongdae guesses. 

Minseok hums as Jongdae lies back down beside him. “That, and while I’m useless to everyone else while the Tongues are gone, I know I can still be useful to you. You’ve a hard road to walk, and I know about hard roads. You’ve no one, even though everyone supports you—I know about that, too. You’ve ended up with a job that everyone would see done but none wish to do themselves, and I’ve lived that life. It’s a lonely one, and you hate to be alone.”

The bed shifts as Minseok changes position, then an arm drapes over Jongdae’s waist. “The Resonance may have separated us from our families, but at least it brought us together. You figure out how to save Elyxion from those shadows, I’ll make sure you end up where you need to be in one piece.”

Jongdae lets himself squirm closer to this pure source of warmth and light that may as well be glowing in the bed beside him.

“It’s a deal,” he says, resting his own arm beside Minseok’s on his stomach. “But you’re wrong about one thing.”

“What’s that?” Minseok’s warm breath puffs gently against Jongdae’s skin.

“You said I’ve no one, but I do. I’ve got you, do I not?”

Minseok’s arm tightens around him. “Of course, Chenny. Of course you’ve got me.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

It’s boredom more than anything that has Minseok agreeing to go with Jongdae to the library for more research with the High Cantor. He figures he’ll find an out-of-the-way spot and a book or scroll that seems not to be in danger of falling apart when he touches it, then practice his reading to himself while they work. 

Except that the High Cantor—who insists that Minseok call him merely Baekhyun—keeps trying to make conversation with him. 

“How long have you been a Walker?”

“I survived my ordeal at seventeen. That was eleven years ago.”

“So young! But you’re, what? Six years older than Jongdae? Must be like having a kid brother tag along.”

Something in the High Cantor’s tone sets Minseok slightly on edge, though his words and demeanor are exceedingly polite. Perhaps it’s simply that Minseok’s not used to chatting with strangers, but he’d truly rather get back to his reading. He’s not sure when he’ll get another chance to practice his nascent skill.

“I know not what having a brother is like, but Jongdae's no child. And if anything, I’m the one who tags after him,” he answers, hoping that’ll be the end of it.

But the High Cantor hums appreciatively. “You must be exceedingly fit to continuously brave the bleak.”

“As fit as I need to be.”

“And so modest—are all Walkers so demure or is it just you?”

“I know not,” Minseok says, trying to keep his place in the text without actually resting his finger against the vellum. 

“Uncle Baekhyun?” Jongdae calls from across the room. “Where should I look for clues about this ‘Ring?’ Is it just indicating that this is the location stanza, or is it a location of its own?”

The High Cantor bounces over to give his opinion, but is soon back at Minseok’s side.

“What pet did you choose? Let me guess—you’re a dog person, right?”

“My  _ companion _ is a tundra cat.”

“Ah, how cute! I’ve a dog—Mongryong is a failure as a sheepdog, but he’s a good friend.”

Unsure as to why the High Cantor is looking at him expectantly, Minseok merely nods, dropping his eyes to his scroll again.

“Uncle Baekhyun?”

“Yes, dear nephew?” 

The High Cantor quickly goes to Jongdae whenever he’s called, but always drifts back over to Minseok like a wave called back to the sea. Jongdae keeps trying to use a respectful tone, but Minseok can hear that he’s getting more than a little frustrated.

So Minseok picks up his scroll—a bunch of children’s songs with fanciful illustrations in the margins—and moves it to the desk beside Jongdae, who looks up at him, eyebrows lifted.

“There’s more light over here,” Minseok offers by way of explanation, even though the softly-glowing moonglobes are uniform throughout the room. There's a bit more light splashing over this desk, thanks to the colored glass of the fancy window, and Jongdae accepts Minseok’s presence at his elbow with no further comment. 

Now the High Cantor hovers over them both, offering commentary on the songs Minseok's reading even though Minseok’s not asked for any. But he’s also right there when Jongdae has questions, and soon enough Jongdae has him drawn in to their research fully, leaving Minseok to pronounce things silently to himself, smiling at the page like a fool when the sounds connect in his head to make a word. 

Jongdae agrees for both of them when the High Cantor invites them to dinner, though he looks a bit distressed when Minseok’s seated across from the High Cantor and beside a woman who’s introduced as the Treble. So he’s diagonal from Jongdae, therefore not truly able to talk with him. Not that Minseok’s that great of a conversationalist, but fancy table manners were not something Snow Walkers were ever taught, considering most of their food is eaten directly from their mittened hand or scooped out of bowls with deep spoons. Occasionally he’d been served fancier food at lychrows of larger temples, but he’d generally ended up eating it with his fingers anyway.

Without Jongdae to advise him, Minseok does the best he can by observation, waiting for the others to begin eating before selecting the right utensil for the unfamiliar food. It’s a bit difficult, since both the High Cantor and the Treble seem determined to talk with Minseok, asking him all about Walking and the prophecy and his place in it, and Minseok feels like more words come out of his mouth than food goes into it.

“So, are your sleeping furs truly designed to accommodate two?”

“They’re oversized to allow our companions to share warmth with us, but they do also make it comfortable to share with a fellow.”

“That must be… cozy.” The treble gives Minseok a wink.

“It’s a bit more comfortable than relying so much on our companions, but we keep warm well enough either way.”

“Surely it’s more pleasant to sleep pressed against another human than against a shaggy beast, warm or no.”

Minseok shrugs. “Tan does not snore.”

This draws laughter from the boisterous pair, far more than Minseok judges the comment to deserve. He shoots a bemused look to Jongdae, but he’s looking down at his plate, eating steadily and seeming not to follow their talk at all. Minseok tries to direct the conversation towards Jongdae several times with no success, and finally Jongdae pushes back his chair and asks to be excused.

Grateful beyond measure, Minseok tries to do the same, only to have Jongdae bid him stay and finish his meal.

“I’m perfectly safe walking from here to the guesthouse—there’s nothing to protect me from in town, and I can hardly get lost. I know you’ve few chances to eat like this, so please stay and have your fill.”

“I’ve had my fill,” Minseok insists. He’s not actually very full, but he cares not. He’ll probably not be given the chance to eat much more, anyway, he’d rather not be left alone with these strangers, and his throat is almost sore from talking so much.

There are more protests, but Minseok’s done worrying if these strangers think he’s rude. He thanks the hosts for the meal and catches up with Jongdae, who’s eying him oddly in the light of the moonglobe streetlamps.

“You’re not truly full. I’ve seen you eat much more than that.”

“I’d had my fill of being entertainment for strangers,” Minseok dismisses. “You’re much better company.”

When Jongdae pauses in the street, Minseok’s afraid he’s said something wrong, overstepped the boundary between Spark and escort. 

“You’d truly rather follow me to our dark room rather than have two attractive people try to seduce you?”

“Try to what?”

“Minseok, why do you think they were so interested in Walker sleeping habits?”

“…Morbid curiosity?”

Jongdae lifts a mittened hand to his forehead. “Minseok. They were hoping you’d talk about sex.”

“But that’s personal. Why would I talk about that with strangers I’ve no interest in… Oh.” Minseok feels his cheeks warm despite the chill of the night air. “Well. Anyway.”

He takes a step, hesitantly, to see if Jongdae will fall in beside him. He does, shaking his hooded head. 

“You sure you’ve no wish to go back there? You… You could probably have both of them. A-at once.”

“Very sure,” Minseok states. 

The High Cantor and the Treble are both pretty, but he has no wish to make things awkward for Jongdae to work with them. He has no wish to slow things down in any way—Jongdae needs to learn whatever it is the prophecy means for him to do so they can go off and do it.

Jongdae’s steps quicken, crunching in the icy snow. “Probably just as well—we’ve not gotten a chance to bathe yet. They may change their tune when they get you out of all your clothes.”

Minseok snorts. “You’re used to bathing a lot, then?”

“Once a week or so.”

“Fancy.” He draws out the word into a playful slur.

“Look, some of us hang out with living people,” Jongdae laughs. “With working noses.”

“All right, all right, we can ask the guesthouse for a bath when we get back.” A sudden thought sours his mood. “Unless that’ll cost money.”

“It will, but that’s fine,” Jongdae says, smile undimmed. “Uncle Chanyeol gave me a purse before we left, meant for things like this.”

“Oh. That was kind of him.”

“He’s a good guy,” Jongdae agrees. “Uncle Baekhyun is, too. He’s just very… forward.”

“Hmm. Well, he’ll have to understand that I’m here for  _ you. _ I’ll not be distracted by anyone else.”

Jongdae says nothing to that, but he does stick very close to Minseok’s side as they walk back to the guesthouse, arms brushing with every step.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

Minseok and Jongdae save one of Uncle Chanyeol’s coins by helping to fill the bronze tub set out in their room, alternating water boiled over the tallow lamp with bucketloads of clean snow. When the tub is about half full and a comfortable temperature, they engage in a brief argument about who bathes first.

“You’re used to being cleaner,” Minseok states firmly, adding sheepsfoot oil to the water and swirling a cake of mutton-fat soap through it. “You go first. I’ll help you scrub your back and wash your hair, and the water will still be plenty clean and warm compared to what I’m used to.”

“What you’re used to is far less than what you deserve,” Jongdae protests, but he starts undressing anyway.

“So you keep telling me.”

Jongdae flushes hot with shame. “Sorry—I know idle chatter irritates you. I’ll be quieter.”

“Who says chatter irritates me?”

Looking up from the ties of his soft woolen undertrousers, Jongdae furrows his brow.  _ “You _ said. That first day. That Walking was a task for those used to silence.”

Minseok laughs, gesturing to the tub and the room around them. “What I’m used to is far from all I’m able to appreciate. Is that why you’ve been so quiet as we walk?”

Jongdae nods. “I wished not to annoy you.”

Minseok’s full lips curve into a little smile as those big feline eyes close. “I enjoy conversation when I can get it, yet here I was, keeping quiet so as not to offend you. You talked readily to everyone else but me, so I thought you only kept my company when you’d no other choice.”

“I love keeping your company,” Jongdae protests, entirely ashamed. “Though it’ll be much more fun now that we can talk properly.”

Minseok snorts. “What a pair we are.” He gestures to the tub, water foamy and fragrant. “Hurry before it’s too cold for your delicate skin.”

“I’m not delicate,” Jongdae mumbles, but he sheds the rest of his clothes and climbs into the tub, hissing a little at the heat of the water.

“Oh, right—you merely see no reason to settle for adequate when better is available,” Minseok chuckles as he crouches behind Jongdae with a soapy cloth. 

“Said by a man who tolerates the entirely inadequate like it’s no big deal.”

“Hey, I never said I dislike better, I’ve merely no true need for it. Though I’m going to be spoiled after this when I go back to Walking the lychways alone with Tannie.”

“Aww, you’ll miss me?”

“Yeah, Chenny. I will.”

“Well, I’ll miss you, too.”

“Once the Tongues are restored, I’ll be so busy helping to bring all the long-waiting silenced to join the dance. But I’ll make room for you in my sleeping furs if you wish to spend the night in the lychrow for old times’ sake.”

_ How about you come spend the night in my bed? _ Jongdae almost says, stopping himself when he realizes that invitation would sound very much like a proposition. Instead he manages an awkward chuckle. 

“Well, first we have to restore the Tongues, and I’m still not sure how I’m to do that without becoming an ice sculpture.”

“But you’re making progress, right? Did you figure out the Ring?” 

“If it’s meant to be a place instead of just an indicator, the most likely interpretation is that it’s the little island of Gyun, just off the coast near Dominari. It seems the Spark's meant to go ‘from Ring to Ring’ which we thought might mean from temple to temple. rather, the biggest ones with a full ring of bells. But If this Zitao knew that the ring of bells at Dominari would be inaccessible, perhaps he hid the stone at the Gyun hunting camp somewhere instead—the name of the island means ‘ring’ as in ‘circle,’ due to its shape. We think it might be a double meaning.”

“That does sound like a likely conclusion. The hymnwriter seemed to like wordplay, what with use of things like ‘bourden.’”

“That’s what we thought. And in the same vein, Uncle Baekhyun thinks we’d better keep to the lychways. The musical term ‘tacet’ refers not only to silence but specifically to a rest, and you called your rest spots minims, another musical term. They even sort of look like minim rests, just little rectangles attached right to the lychways.”

“Then I’m glad I’m here to escort the Spark.”

Silence falls as Minseok works lather into Jongdae’s hair, mostly because Jongdae has to swallow back what would probably be obscene-sounding moans of pleasure at the sensation. They’d both bathed in Yon, warm baths heated by the Blood flowing beneath the floor of the public bathhouse, but they’d gone separately, what with Jongdae thinking Minseok preferred time to himself.

But every time Minseok has the chance to choose to be alone or with Jongdae, with others or with Jongdae, he chooses Jongdae every time—as long as it’s not against any rules. And as long as Jongdae does not foolishly send him away. 

He cringes at the memory of how he’d tried to keep silent and leave Minseok alone, when he could’ve had this easy companionship instead. He resolves to choose Minseok, too, whenever possible—not to the point of being annoying (he hopes), but often enough to show Minseok that Jongdae appreciates him, his loyalty and determination, his warmth of personality along with that of his body. 

So when Jongdae’s all rinsed and toweled off, he returns to Minseok, who’s now occupying the tub. He takes the coarse-knit woolen cloth from Minseok’s hand, and earns the flash of a smile before Minseok folds farther forward, exposing more of his well-muscled back.

Jongdae scrubs diligently, then hands the cloth back so he can wash Minseok’s hair. Minseok practically purrs beneath Jongdae’s fingertips, eyes closed, wearing a rather contented smile.

“Thank you, Chenny,” he says when Jongdae’s finished. 

“You take care of me, I take care of you,” Jongdae smiles. “That’s how this works, right?”

“Sure,” Minseok chuckles. “I’ll take care of you, you’ll take care of us all.”

“Ugh, remind me not,” Jongdae whines. “I’ll not be taking care of anyone if I fail to figure this dumb prophecy out. Then I truly will be a burden.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Minseok assures him, tilting his handsome face way back to smile up at Jongdae. “You’ve new ideas for tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” Jongdae says, trying not to stare at all the sturdy chest beneath that pointed chin. “Uncle Baekhyun found yet another treatise.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

The following day finds Minseok once again among towering racks of scrolls and shelves of books, following Jongdae and the High Cantor while the Treble trails behind him.

“I’m truly sorry if we made you uncomfortable last night at dinner,” the Treble says when they’re separated from the other two by a row of bronze filigree scroll racks. “Baekhyun suggested that you might be interested in a little bedsport, but I’d no idea you were so devoted to our Spark or I’d have dissuaded him. I hope you’re not too offended.”

Minseok lifts a brow. “A Walker is concerned only with their charge and survival,” he states. “I adhere to this still, despite my current charge being living.”

The Treble tilts her pretty face. “But you care for Jongdae much more than you care for one of your usual charges.”

Minseok shrugs. “He needs more care.”

She nods, looking off down the aisle through which the other men have already passed. “So the Resonance blessed him with you.”

Minseok shakes his head. “I’m the one who’s been blessed. Chen—Jongdae is magnificent. It’s an incredible honor to do anything I can to support and aid him in this quest.” 

It’s a far nobler fate than the discarded child he’d once been would’ve even thought to hope for, that he’d one day help an incredible man to save the world. And Resonance willing, he’ll succeed, even if Minseok must sacrifice himself. His life had been forfeit ever since his parents had surrendered him to the Silent Heart, anyway. 

“Elyxion is cold and hard, and not every spirit is meant to linger long in flesh,” High Cantor Changmin had said to the dregs upon their arrival at the Temple of the Heart. “You who would have died shall now live for the dead. You have been spared in order to serve.”

And serve Minseok will, even if he wishes never to serve his current ward as he’d served all the others. He’d not known the silenced he’d transported as anything other than duty, though he’d treated each of life’s vessels with respect. He treats his current ward with respect as well, yet he’d also like to treat Jongdae with affection, to keep him happy as well as safe, for him to smile as well as sing. And from the way the Treble looks at Minseok, soft and almost a little sad, Minseok suspects she knows it.

“I wish you Resonance on your quest,” the Treble says, just as Jongdae, several aisles down, releases a frustrated huff.

“It’s so dark in here,” he complains. 

Minseok’s gaze lifts to the circular window in the wall, a mosaic of glittering glass in all the colors of the sun. It’s less impressive during the long dawn of late winter than it would be in midsummer—or at least it  _ was, _ until Jongdae sings out the lilt that the High Cantor had used to illuminate the little moonglobes in the lower archives.

There are no moonglobes in here, but the room is suddenly filled with a brilliant light anyway. 

Minseok flinches away from the blinding window, turning back to stare at it through the slit between his fingers. It’s not the whole window that’s shining like the actual sun, only a single small segment of glass.

“Holy bells,” Jongdae breathes as the light dies away. 

“Holy Resonance,” the High Cantor corrects as the four of them converge below the window. “A boost, please, friend Walker, if you will.”

Minseok drops to one knee against the dark stone, allowing the High Cantor to step first on his thigh and then his shoulders. He stands slowly, back to the wall, and the High Cantor lifts onto his tiptoes as Minseok grasps his ankles. 

“Hand me up that stylus, Taeyeonnie, the bronze one with the sharp tip,” the High Cantor requests, and the Treble moves to comply. 

There’s some muttering and some scraping sounds over Minseok’s head, then something falls from above, sparkling even in the low light. Jongdae catches it, plucking from his palm what appears to be yet another translucent faceted stone. This one's a brilliant orange, and as Minseok drops back to a knee, the stone glows again in response to Jongdae’s almost-whispered lilt.

“Thank you for your assistance, Walker Minseok,” the High Cantor says with a pat to the shoulders he’s just hopped down from.

He reaches to take the stone from Jongdae, who seems a bit reluctant to relinquish it. “Handy little thing to have around,” the High Cantor says, holding it up and singing out the lilt. He frowns when nothing happens. 

“You’re not the morning song that sings the stars aglow,” the Treble says with a little smile, patting the High Cantor on the back. “He also has a far darker road to walk than you do—it seems the Resonance means Jongdae to take this trinket with him.”

“Of course,” the High Cantor agrees, all smiles again. “We could fix it to his staff, in lieu of a lychlight.”

Jongdae sighs. “Or you could put it in the Soundbow with the other one.”

“Other one?”

“Yeah—the High Cantor of the Blood gave me a red stone that glowed hot when I sang the strain to call fire. He set it in the Grand High Cantor’s Soundbow. So I’d not lose it.”

The High Cantor’s brows lift. “Gathering a constellation, indeed.”

Jongdae nods.

“Well. There’s no arguing with the Resonance. Yet you’re not wearing the Soundbow.”

“It’s in my pack.”

“Well, we’ll bring it to the tinker and see what he can do with it. In the meantime, use your newest star to help you find those scrolls and let’s figure out the rest of your destiny, my dear nephew.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

It’s Minseok who ends up taking the stone and the Soundbow to the tinker, purely so he can feel some kind of useful. The tinker is a tall, thin man called Mino who seems to enjoy making beautiful things instead of merely functional ones.

“So you’d have this stone set in this here necklace?”

Minseok nods.

“You one of them Walkers?”

Minseok nods again. “But this belongs not to me. The High Cantor asked me to bring this to you.”

“I see. Well. I can do it. It’ll cost him. He send you with pay?”

Minseok holds out the crock of compote. The tinker’s eyes light up. He picks up the Soundbow and the orange stone, eyeing the way the red stone is set within a loop of bronze filigree.

“You’d have it match with this ‘un?”

“If possible. It’s more important that it’s secure.”

The tinker holds the orange stone against a few of the whorls, then nods. “Should fit well enough right here, if that’s a’right. Be off center, though.”

Minseok shrugs. “I think that not to matter.”

“Then I can have it ready in about two days. That work?”

With a final nod, Minseok takes his leave, making his way back to the library towers. It takes him a few tries to find the chamber Jongdae and the High Cantor are currently in, but the way Jongdae lifts his face from the scroll in front of him and smiles so brightly when he sees who stepped through the archway is very gratifying.

“Minseok! You’re back. Was it all right? Can it be done?”

“The tinker said he’d have it ready in two days,” Minseok reports, smiling in response to Jongdae’s enthusiastic greeting. 

“Hopefully by that time, we’ll know what the bells we’re meant to do with these stars. If these are truly the stars I’m meant to be singing to. And what to sing to them. And what that’s meant to do. And—”

“Patience, my dear nephew,” the High Cantor soothes. “We’ll figure it out.”

Jongdae’s grumble seems far from convinced, but he blesses Minseok with another smile when he takes a sturdy-looking scroll from a nearby rack and sits down beside his charge. 

“More reading practice?”

“If that’s all right.”

“Of course it is,” the High Cantor smiles. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can help you with—some of these old musical or religious terms are difficult to understand even for the comfortably literate.”

With a nod, Minseok unrolls his scroll beside Jongdae’s, nape tingling slightly when Jongdae carefully weights the edges down for him. He smiles his thanks and Jongdae returns the expression, leaving Minseok staring down at his self-assigned reading practice with warm cheeks.

The scroll is a very metaphorical love poem. It’s a little harder to make sense of than the one he’d had before, but Minseok enjoys the challenge. He also enjoys the way Jongdae leans his shoulder against Minseok’s, spreading scrolls out to his left rather than making space between them for his work.

“What a precious pair,” the Treble coos when she enters the chamber hours later. 

Turning to greet her makes Minseok realize exactly how stiff he’d gotten sitting in one position for so long, and a whine beside him lets him know Jongdae's similarly suffering. 

“Is it dinner time, Auntie?” Jongdae asks.

“Soon. It’s at least time to stretch,” she laughs. 

Since the studious air has been disrupted already, Minseok asks the question he’s been saving for an opportune moment.

“What does ‘staves’ mean here?”

Three sets of eyes blink at him.

“Where did you read that?” the High Cantor asks, leaning over Minseok’s scroll. “Ah, yes, ‘staves,’ more than one musical stave. The rows of lines music is written on—these.” He points to the five lines that the dots with sticks climb up and down.

“Oh,” Minseok says. “That makes more sense. I thought it might mean more than one staff.”

“Staff?” The Treble looks confused, then her eyes widen. “Oh, like a Walker’s staff?” 

Jongdae and the High Cantor gape at each other, then at the Treble, and finally at Minseok.

“Seok, you’re the Stave.”

“Am I?” Minseok blinks at Jongdae. “Is that… good?”

“Not only  _ good, _ but essential,” the High Cantor says, unfurling a scroll and laying it out on the table. “‘With song and Stave shall Clef endure,’” he reads. “If we interpret the Stave as our dear Walker, that would make the Clef seem to refer to the Spark, which seems very Resonant. Equating the Spark with a key has been done before, in several of the old hymns.”

“A musical key or a physical one?” Jongdae asks. “Am I literally to unlock something, or are we back to singing again?”

“It seems like singing  _ is _ the key, my dear nephew—did you not ‘unveil’ the sunny stone with it? And I’m sure you’ll find much more to unlock in Phrygia.” 

“Phrygia?”

The High Cantor nods at Minseok’s lifted brows. “Blood, hide, then bones. And when you’ve sung aglow whatever star is veiled there, then it’s on to Lydos, Gyun, and Aeolis.”

“Are you sure it’s safe to visit Gyun? Jongdae said it’s very close to Dominari.”

“It is,” the High Cantor says. “But it’s very clear that all the stars must be gathered together, so there must be a way to get there. Perhaps by following the coast road instead of the lychway?”

“I hope so,” Jongdae huffs. “The fast ice along the coast will have melted If we’re meant to go to Phrygia and Lydos first. I hope we’re able to find these stars quickly. The silenced are already piling up—we need to restore the Tongues as soon as possible.”

“It’ll be as the Resonance wills,” the High Cantor says. “But there’s no harm in preparation and optimism. Let’s see what else we can divine while we wait for the Soundbow to be ready.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩ⵔ❩ⵔ⁾

The next two days of hunching over scrolls and manuscripts and scores have served to fill Jongdae’s head with ancient words and make his spine feel just as old. His shoulders carry most of the strain, and Minseok tuts at Jongdae’s twisted posture as they ready themselves for bed by the light of the moonglobe newly affixed to the end of Jongdae’s staff.

“Lie atop the covers for a moment,” he instructs.

Jongdae knows better than to argue when the Snow Walker uses that specific tone. He collapses onto the bed facedown, cooperating when small, warm hands coax his body into a straighter position near the center of the mattress. Then the bed dips and a weight settles over Jongdae’s lower back before those small, warm hands curve over Jongdae’s aching shoulders.

Any shock Jongdae may have experienced at Minseok basically sitting on him is entirely obliterated by the sharp, squeezing sensations of Minseok rubbing sore muscles with strong fingers and sturdy palms. It  _ hurts _ but feels so good at the same time and Jongdae’s almost weeping into the fleece beneath his face.

And then Minseok starts thrumming, pressing warmth into his knotted shoulders and kinked neck, the tight muscles along his spine. Jongdae’s half-sobs melt into moans beneath Minseok’s heated hands, and by the time he dismounts Jongdae’s back with a final pat and an amused hum, Jongdae has practically dissolved into the sheepskins.

Every part of him is loose, languid, relaxed—except for one. One that makes him rather reluctant to roll over, even just enough to tuck himself properly beneath the covers.

“My fellows and I would do that for each other during our training,” Minseok says as he slips beneath the fleece on his side of the bed. “Becoming accustomed to carrying a heavy pack is a long process that results in stiff shoulders and spines by the time we were permitted rest. And a massage might result in stiffness other places—it increases the blood circulation, so certain side effects may occur. Nothing to feel awkward about.” 

Face as hot as his shoulders, Jongdae quickly rolls himself beneath the sheepskins. Knowing it’s a typical reaction somehow makes him feel even more uncomfortable. He’s unable to stop the images flitting through his head of hands on Minseok’s body, Minseok’s hands on someone else. But Minseok evidently feels no awkwardness at all, because he settles right up against Jongdae like he always does, draping an arm over the shoulders he’d just rubbed the tension from.

“Thank you,” Jongdae murmurs as the last of the light from the moonglobe dies away. “Feels so much better.”

“Any time. I’m happy to have been able to help.”

And then with that uncanny ability of a Snow Walker to find rest wherever possible, Minseok drops off to sleep, leaving Jongdae enveloped in warmth and comfort, a strange sensation fluttering in his gut.

It’s still there in the morning, waking along with Jongdae as he comes to gradual awareness that he’s being held tight against Minseok’s chest. Jongdae had evidently rolled onto his back during the night, and now Minseok’s sleep-heavy body is half-draped on top of him, one muscular arm wrapped around his waist. He can feel Minseok’s morning arousal against his hip, nothing unusual or lewd, nothing that had ever bothered him before. Sharing a bed with his brother had taught him that natural body reactions are nothing to be read into. Jongdeok had always ignored it as inconsequential happenstance, and that’s exactly what this is. Fraternal sharing of warmth, brotherly easing of tensed muscles, and uncontrollable biological occurrences. Nothing at all to pay any attention to.

“Morning, Chenny,” Minseok murmurs against his shoulder.

“How do you always know when I wake up?”

“You stop being relaxed,” Minseok chuckles, lifting his arm in response to Jongdae’s shift toward the edge of the bed. “All of this prophecy business must be quite the burden for you.”

“It is,” Jongdae sighs, throwing back the covers to retrieve the clothes they’d tucked at the foot of the bed. “But now I know what I’m meant to be doing in the short term, at least. We’ll pick up the Soundbow and then head off to Phrygia, find another sparkly rock, and move on to the next one.”

Minseok’s full gummy smile is all the more beautiful for the fact that Jongdae only ever sees it pointed at him.

“It does feel good to have a plan.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Minseok hears his companion before he can see her, something that already has the hair on the nape of his neck standing tall before he and Jongdae crest the long staircase up from Dorus. She’s hissing, growling low and uneasy and when he peers around her puffed-up form he can see why.

“Clapping shadows,” Jongdae says, practically hissing himself. He scowls at the smudge just visible far down the lychway back toward Dominari. He lifts an arm, then pauses. “We have no ready source of extra heat,” he says. “But how can we just leave for Phrygia if Dorus is in danger? Do you think they’ll come for the town?”

“They did at Yon.”

“Do you think you can thrum me warm enough to turn them back with fire?”

“I doubt it,” Minseok states, mind racing for some solution. “What about the lilt? Can you make your staff shine enough to drive them off?”

Jongdae brandishes the moonglobe toward the distant threat and lilts the notes into the long blue dawn. The end of the staff glows far too bright to look at, but Jongdae’s blinking wide-eyed like it’s not even there.

“Minseok, I see nothing,” he says, note of panic creeping into his voice. “Seok?”

“I’m right here, Chenny,” Minseok soothes, swallowing back his own distress. He takes hold of Jongdae’s arm and clings despite his startle at the touch. “I’ve got you. You’re all right.”

“I see nothing,” Jongdae says again, eyes filling with tears. “Seok, how can I save anyone if I see clapping  _ nothing?” _

“The moonglobes fade over time, do they not?” Minseok reasons, ignoring his pounding heart. “So your vision might fade back in. It’s surely not the will of the Resonance that you blind yourself—as you said, it would be difficult for you to continue to fulfill the prophecy, and there’s nothing in any of those scrolls about going blind, is there?”

“There’s a lot about the dark, though,” Jongdae says, voice small. “Am I doomed to the dark, Seok? Even if my vision returns this time, is this my future? What if singing to the stars leaves me blind and frozen and whatever else I learn to sing?”

“It’ll not,” Minseok states, even though he has no idea what sacrifices the future may require. He refuses to dwell on the possibility, because he’d never be able to lead Jongdae to his doom, world saving or not. “You’ll be fine—there, you turned away from your staff. Does it hurt your eyes? Your pupils are shrinking.”

“Is that why my eyes are stinging?” Jongdae tries to direct his sightless gaze to the end of his still-outstretched arm but his eyes keep shying away. “Seok—that’s good, right? My eyes still respond to light?”

“Absolutely,” Minseok says. “I’m sure you’ll be fine as the glow dies.” He’s not at all sure, but at this point he’d say almost anything to smooth the furrow of fear from between Jongdae’s brows. “Let’s not wait out in the cold for you to recover, though. The sepulchre's this way.”

Minseok tries to lead Jongdae toward the stone structure but he resists, digging the point of his staff into the snowy ground. “We need to go back down to Dorus. We need to tell them. Perhaps with the sun bouncing off the hide, it’ll be warm enough, or perhaps you can teach the thrum to others and you can all work to replace what singing fire steals.”

“Perhaps,” Minseok says. “But Chenny, the stairs are steep even for those who’re able to see them. Even if I lead you, if you mis-step, we’re both in peril.”

“What about Tan?” Jongdae asks. “Will she go down the stairs? Slowly enough that I can cling to her? She’s too big to be dislodged if I stumble.”

Minseok eyes his companion, then the stairs. They’re broad enough for two people abreast, having been designed for carriers of the silenced. Tundra cats are very sure-footed, so he’s not at all worried she’d slip. He’s not sure she’d tolerate Jongdae clinging to her, but she’d probably let Minseok get away with it.

“Tannie,” he calls, doing so twice before he gets more than a begrudgingly-swiveled ear pointing at him in response. “Tannie, we’re going down to Dorus. Chenny, stand still a moment.”

He releases Jongdae despite his whimper, moving behind him to tug the pack from his shoulders. Minseok leaves Jongdae standing beside Tan for just long enough to tuck Jongdae’s pack and his own into one of the sepulchre cells along with his staff. He needs two hands for this endeavor, and they’ll not need any of their supplies unless they can safely travel the lychways, anyway. 

But just before he shuts the heavy bronze cell door, a thought occurs to Minseok. The moonglobe on the end of Jongdae’s staff is glowing far brighter than any lychlight, but the orange stone had glowed so bright it seemed like the sun. Perhaps there’s some way they can use it to direct light at the oncoming shadows.

He digs in Jongdae’s pack and pulls out the purse containing the newly-altered Soundbow, tucking it in a pocket. Then he tugs the sepulchre door shut and hurries back to his charge.

“Seok,” Jongdae breathes when Minseok grips his arm again, body relaxing slightly. “Never leave me like that again.”

“I’m here,” Minseok soothes. “I’ll not let you go until your vision returns.” He shifts to hold Jongdae’s right wrist in his own right hand, allowing Jongdae to continue to grip the glowing staff. Then he turns to give Jongdae his back. “Put your left hand on my shoulder—yes, that’s it. Stay right behind me like that.”

With his left hand, Minseok grabs a fistful of fur over Tan’s shoulder, earning himself a rather disgruntled look.

“Sorry, Tannie,” he murmurs. “Let’s go down the stairs. Come on—I’ll get them to give you so much lamb for tolerating this. That’s my girl.”

Skin twitching beneath his hand, Tan paces beside them, allowing Minseok to direct her down the stairs as Jongdae follows blindly. Jongdae’s fingers are twisted into the furs over Minseok’s shoulder in much the same way Minseok’s gripping Tan, and Minseok continues to apologize to his companion for causing such discomfort.

“Slowly, Tannie,” he coaxes. “That’s it. Come on, Chenny—feel for each step with your toes. Tan’s between us and the edge, and her claws make her footing secure. It’s impossible for us to fall. Steady on—that’s it. Good girl. Good boy.”

Jongdae snorts at the last bit but follows readily, falling into a rhythm behind Minseok. Minseok guides his staff to each lower step, then Jongdae steps down level with it as Minseok descends one step ahead. He keeps soothing both companion and charge with his words, voice growing raspy with continuous use.

Thankfully, the High Cantor has seen their descent and must have guessed at trouble based on the presence of the tundra cat. They’d be all but shielded from view by her furry form, but Jongdae’s staff is still glowing. The effect now that they’re in the scintillating bowl is probably rather dramatic when seen from the town, so Minseok’s not surprised that they’re met by a very concerned looking High Cantor when they’re barely halfway down.

“That… is a huge, huge cat,” he states, eyeing Tan warily from several steps below them. “Dare I ask why you’re bringing your companion in to town? And why you’re all clinging to each other?”

“Uncle Baekhyun, the shadows are on the lychway—they followed us to Yon, too, but we shot them with fireballs and they scattered. But it costs heat to make fire, and singing too much light into the moonglobe stole my sight.”

“The shadows are here? And you’ve gone blind?” The High Cantor’s face is twisted with horror.

“I think my vision’s coming back,” Jongdae adds. “I can see some vague shifting shapes. But I know not when I’ll be able to see well enough to aim a fireball, and we’d need to be able to see them coming ideally before they came over the edge of the bowl—”

“The wolfbeam,” the High Cantor states, setting his jaw. “We use it to protect the flocks in summer when the winter wolves seek easy prey for their growing pups. It’s a big disc of polished bronze above the bellcote that lets us direct the light from the bowl at any specific spot along the coast, discouraging sheep-stealers without risking more direct confrontation. It only works when there’s enough sun, but perhaps we can rig something up with a bunch of moonglobes.”

“That sounds perfect,” Jongdae says, pushing at Minseok’s shoulder for him to take another step. “I can sing the light and you can aim it. Hopefully pure light will discourage the shadows as much as fire.”

“Hopefully,” the High Cantor says, “But let’s make haste in case we need an alternate plan.”

Minseok releases Tan with a pat and yet another apology. “Follow close,” he instructs her.

Unsurprisingly, she ignores them all for several minutes while she licks the mussed fur of her shoulder back into place. But with Minseok ahead of Jongdae and the High Cantor at his side, they’re able to establish a more consistent rhythm than the pacing provided by the agitated tundra cat. They chant out their steps, Jongdae moving on trust, Minseok and the High Cantor working hard not to fail him.

“Walker Minseok, may I trust your companion not to maraud through our flocks?” the High Cantor asks when they finally reach the bottom. “The sheepdogs are going to be very distressed at the presence of this massive predator.”

“I did promise her a lamb for her tolerance,” Minseok says with an apologetic smile. “But now that Jongdae’s in good hands, I’ll stay with Tan to keep her from hunting one up for herself.”

“She may have all the lamb she can eat,” the High Cantor states. “It’s only excess slaughter we try to avoid. I’ll take Jongdae up to the wolfbeam and see what we can do about a light source.”

“No,” Jongdae says, clinging to Minseok as he pulls the purse with the Soundbow out of his pocket.

“You’ll be fine climbing a ladder even if you see it not,” Minseok says, detaching Jongdae’s grasping fingers and pressing the purse into them. “Use the orange star—it might glow bright enough if you sing to it again.”

“You said you’d not leave me until I could see,” Jongdae protests.

“I’m not leaving you alone—your vision’s returning, and your uncle's here to take care of you,” Minseok soothes. “Tan’s not able to follow us into a narrow belltower, and she’s not used to towns or lots of curious people. You go on and protect Dorus from the shadows while I stay with Tan to protect her from Dorus.”

Jongdae whines in wordless protest but lets the High Cantor lead him away, trying to look over his shoulder and pout at Minseok as he goes. Shaking his head, Minseok calls Tan over to the base of one of the library towers, settling down against the dark stone walls to keep watch. He’s not sure how long Jongdae and the High Cantor will need to prepare, but pressed against Tan’s fur Minseok can perhaps stay warm enough to lob enough little fireballs at the top of the stairs to keep the shadows away from the rim until the wolfbeam is ready. Keeping Dorus safe keeps Jongdae safe, so Minseok’s ready to do whatever he must.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Once again, Jongdae finds himself preparing to defend an entire town, no big deal, only thousands of lives in the balance, not to mention all the flocks of sheep that help feed and clothe the rest of Elyxion. Uncle Baekhyun had told him that the rocky coast in this region is perfect to harbor the marine algae that the sheep primarily eat—flocks this size would fail to survive anywhere else. Losing the town to the shadows would take out four-fifths of Elyxion’s wool production, not to mention all the vellum, lanolin, sheepsfoot oil, tallow, and mutton produced by the sheep raised here.

No pressure at all.

And once again, Jongdae’s having to do this without Minseok at his side. He understands the practicality of keeping the massive tundra cat calm and isolated from sheep or townsfolk, and it’s not as if they can simply send her back up the steps. Unlike at Yon, where the bleak wraps around the town and the volcano that supports it, there would be nowhere for the cat to flee from the shadows. Aside from the fact that he’s starting to get rather attached to the beast, Jongdae now knows that traveling the bleak without a big furry companion is all but asking for death. They need Tan, so Tan needs to be taken care of.

But Jongdae would rather like to be taken care of, too. He’s basically blind, for bells’ sake, and now he’s climbing the long ladder to the bellcote and beyond, ending up squished against the frigid stone wall of a small chamber almost completely filled by what he’s told is a massive oval of polished bronze. It tilts and swivels to aim light from the reflective bowl wherever the operator wishes, but Jongdae’s almost sure the shadows will not approach during the short hours the bowl is made blinding by the sun. He’s going to have to stay up here all day, cramped and afraid to move for fear of falling down the ladder shaft, while the High Cantor and the Treble arrange some sort of pulley system to lift overlapping nets of walrus-hide cording, usually used to haul wool but repurposed to hold moonglobes pilfered from libraries and streetlamps and even private homes.

Surely Jongdae could’ve waited with Minseok and Tan while all the setup was done. It’s not like he can actually help, nor is he able to keep watch over the rim of the bowl or anything with his vision still mostly greyed out. He’s merely there, at the ready, Soundbow once again locked around his throat so he’s unable to accidentally drop it, tiny clef on a leather strap tied tight around his wrist in a way that would make it all but impossible to unlock the neckpiece himself even if he wished to do so. He’s only been left to sit on the cold stone floor, helpless but essential, a weapon to be wielded, an instrument in another’s hands once again.

“I can hear you grinding your teeth up here from three rungs down,” the Treble’s melodic voice declares with a gentle laugh. A delicate hand grasps Jongdae’s own, curving his fingers before pressing a warm cup into them. “Bearberry tea,” she informs him. “Keep you warm and give you a bit of energy.”

There’s some rustling, then the Treble’s soft touch urges him to his feet, slowly so as not to spill his tea. A moment later, she helps him sit back down, laughing at the expression he makes when he lands on something much more cushy than the tower’s stone floor.

“Lean forward a bit,” she commands gently.

Jongdae obeys, smiling when soft weight settles against his back. A similar heaviness is draped over his knees.

“There,” the Treble declares. “All cozy with fleece and tea. Drink up—your Walker will bring you more along with a proper supper once he gets that huge kitten settled.”

Jongdae sits up a little straighter. “Minseok’s coming?”

“As soon as the beast is fed,” she assures him. “They were driving a few lambs into the square for it, which is why I decided now was a good time to make you more comfortable. I appreciate that the creature needs to eat, but I’ve no care to watch. I clean the highest library towers on slaughter day, too, even though I love spring mutton.”

A smile stretches Jongdae’s lips. “I understand. I never liked seeing the walrus hunt in Dominari, even though I know we need their meat and blubber and skin. I accept that it costs life to support life, but it’s still unpleasant.”

“Indeed.” The Treble pats Jongdae’s fleece-covered knee. “I’m leaving a bucket right here for you, for when your body’s done with the tea. Please try not to kick it over after you’ve used it.”

Jongdae chuckles through a blush. “I’ll do my absolute best.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

It takes a rather long time for Minseok to feel comfortable leaving Tan. He has absolute confidence that leaving her in the bleak for weeks at a time will see her happy and healthy and ready to go as soon as he reappears, but a town is a whole different story. He trusts her not to hurt an adult without provocation, but children might seem closer to prey than is safe. As predicted, the local sheepdogs are a problem, barking their little black-and-white heads off while dancing well out of reach of discouraging paw swipes. 

But the High Cantor has ordered everyone not actively involved in the defense preparations to shut themselves indoors, a decree more readily obeyed as the sun starts to dip back below the horizon. And a well-fed cat is a sleepy one, so once Tan has finished grooming the last speck of blood from her fur, Minseok coaxes her to the northeastern edge of town, just before the tidy stone buildings give way to the rocky disorder of the coast. It’s the farthest point from the base of the stairs they expect the shadows to attempt to swarm down, and it reassures Minseok that, worse coming to worst, his dear companion will be able to flee up the coastline and escape into the bleak.

Minseok lays out several large, fleecy sheepskins to the lee of a currently-closed business, making Tan a soft bed out of the wind.

“Stay here,” he says, pointing to the fleece. “Have a nice nap while I watch Jongdae blow shadows away.”

Evidently pleased by his offering, Tan begins to knead and scrunch the fleeces into  _ her  _ idea of a proper bed. With a final pat to her furry rump, Minseok leaves her to it, jogging back across town to the temple. The Treble hands him a pail of food and a crock of hot tea, each fastened to the end of a sturdy leather strap she hangs over his shoulder so he can climb the ladder while carrying them.

When Minseok pokes his head up into the upper chamber, an odd sight greets his eyes. Jongdae’s dozing in the corner behind the massive bronze reflector, draped in fleecy sheepskins and holding on to an old bucket. It would be cute if not for the odor that reminds Minseok of a patch of yellow snow.

“Chenny?” Minseok calls as he crawls beneath the rim of the reflector, pushing crock and pail ahead of him.

Jongdae startles awake, almost knocking over the bucket. With a yelp and a scramble he saves it, clutching it close while panting with relief.

Minseok stifles a laugh. “I leave my charge alone for a day and return to find him cuddling a whizz bucket. Clearly, closer supervision is required.”

“Shut up,” Jongdae whines. “Auntie told me not to spill it. Without being able to see it, holding on to it seemed like the best way not to accidentally bump it.”

“Fair enough. But you can see now.”

Jongdae blinks. “I can!” The smile he gives Minseok seems bright enough to burn away shadows by itself.

“I’m so glad. Especially because now we can set this in the opposite corner—” Minseok takes the bucket from Jongdae and stretches to move it as far away as possible in this tiny space. “—and eat some dinner. The High Cantor is finalizing the preparations, then he’ll come up to make sure we’re ready up here.”

“You’ll stay?” Jongdae’s eyebrows are truly cute when they tug up toward the middle of his forehead.

Minseok nods. “Someone’s got to make sure you’re pointing the right direction. And the High Cantor will be up here aiming the wolfbeam.”

“It’s going to be so cramped,” Jongdae huffs as he digs into the dinner pail. “This better tolling work.”

“It will,” Minseok says. 

It has to. And thankfully, it does. 

The shadows pour over the rim as soon as the sky is fully dark. But Dorus is ready, hauling netloads of moonglobes up the tower to glow brightly next to the reflector. The High Cantor tracks the shadows well, but all the beam of light does is make them hiss—until Jongdae sings the stone at his throat aglow.

He lilts again and again as Minseok holds him from behind, keeping the stone set in the Soundbow pointed at the reflector. Then the shadows shriek as the High Cantor sweeps the beam over them, boiling away into smoke and echoes. It takes what seems like half the night to convince the shadows that Dorus is not theirs for the taking, but eventually the beam is only sparkling against the sides of the reflective bowl, no more shadows in sight. 

Jongdae stops lilting to renew the light, letting it fade away to be replaced by the softer light of the moonglobes. The High Cantor continues to paint the bowl with this lesser light, on alert for any renewed attempt at shadowy infiltration. As the moonglobes fade, the Treble and the townsfolk lift newly-lilted ones up to replace them, and as the High Cantor’s arms tire from moving the massive disc, Minseok takes over. Like this they alternate keeping watch and sitting with Jongdae, enriched by hot bearberry tea and mutton stew halfway to dawn.

When the sun lifts an edge over the horizon, the long blue dawn reveals no sign of shadows. 

The triumphant cheer of the townsfolk is answered by an eerie feline yowl, and Minseok smiles tiredly at the pair of raised eyebrows the two men in the corner are giving him.

“I’ll go see to Tannie,” he says, shaking out his fatigued arms. His biceps feel like stone and he’s not at all looking forward to the climb down the ladder.

“Let’s just go see her up the stairs,” Jongdae suggests with a yawn. “If everything’s fine, she’ll go off and hunt or whatever, right? And then we can just crash in the sepulchre—our packs are up there already, anyway.”

Minseok blinks wide eyes at his charge. “Would you not rather sleep at the guesthouse?”

“Sure, but not enough to walk another hour back down the stairs when our sleeping furs are waiting for us. I’m not letting you walk all that way by yourself after you once again saved an entire town. Then we can just head to Phrygia when we’re rested.”

“All right. If you’re sure,” Minseok says, unsure if Jongdae’s casual attitude towards sharing a cell with the silenced is acclimation or merely exhaustion. He supposes it matters not—assuming they can coax some provisions to take up with them, it would definitely be more efficient to be able to set right out for Phrygia when they wake.

“I’m sure.” Jongdae smiles up at Minseok, eyes half-lidded. “My vision’s still a little blurry, but if you shepherd me up the stairs I’ll return that shoulder rub once we get to the top.”

Minseok's powerless not to return that endearing smile. “Deal.”

“A shoulder rub sounds amazing,” the High Cantor moans. “Do you think Taeyeonnie will give me one?”

“Perhaps, if you ask nicely.”

“Do you think she’ll carry me down the ladder?”

“Nope, afraid you’re on your own there, Uncle.”

“Clappers,” the High Cantor grumbles, crawling toward the ladder shaft, pushing a sheepskin ahead of himself. “At least we can simply chuck these down—”

An indignant shriek stabs up from where the fleece had disappeared. “Byun Baekhyun, are you trying to kill your Treble?”

The High Cantor winces. “I’m guessing that’s a no on the shoulder rub.” 

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Jongdae's incredibly relieved when they get to the top of the staircase and there are no shadows in sight. There are no tundra cats in sight, either, Tan having bounded up the stairs ahead of them after sniffing them over to her evident satisfaction. She even sniffed at Uncle Baekhyun, much to his delight.

“Does this mean we’re friends now?” he’d asked in a whisper.

“Probably not,” Minseok had whispered back.

Jongdae had needed to hide his smile.

He does no such thing now, though, grinning at his uncle and Minseok as he musters the energy for a happy little wiggle.

“They’re gone!” he cheers.

“Thanks to you,” Uncle Baekhyun says, pulling him into a hug. “I’m so proud of you, Jongdae. And I know your dad would be, too. You truly are Elyxion’s Great Bell, and it’s an honor to have helped you divine your path. May the Resonance enable you to walk it well.”

“May the Resonance ring within your heart,” Jongdae answers, words muffled against his uncle’s thick woolen robes.

“And in both of yours, dear nephew, friend Walker. You’re always welcome in Dorus, even once you’ve returned to your usual duties.”

Minseok nods his thanks, looking more weary than Jongdae’s ever seen him. Walking through the night with a heavy pack on his shoulders Minseok can evidently handle with few ill effects, but pushing a giant bronze disc around all night is evidently something else. 

“Thank you, Uncle,” Jongdae says, pushing out of the High Cantor’s embrace and accepting the bundle of provisions he’d carried for them. “I hope Auntie has forgiven you by the time you get back down the steps.”

“Me, too,” Uncle Baekhyun laughs, then gives them one last wave before beginning his descent.

Jongdae turns to his exhausted Snow Walker. “I’m putting you to bed,” he declares, prodding him toward the sepulchre cells with his staff. “Which one's our stuff in?”

Minseok halfway lifts an arm to indicate the one on the end and Jongdae ushers him in, ignoring the silenced on the bier and making quick work of spreading out the seal pelt sleeping furs. He tops them with his own fleecy sleeping furs, then sheds his outerwear before poor stone-armed Minseok has managed to unfasten his parka.

“Let me,” Jongdae says, taking over the task. 

Minseok stands there, eyes closed, jaw slack, while Jongdae undresses him, lifting each leg in turn when instructed to step out of his fleece-lined overtrousers. He flops down onto the bedrolls and Jongdae straddles him to rub at his stony shoulders, wincing in sympathy when Minseok hisses at his touch.

“Sorry, Seok,” he murmurs, concentrating on the task beneath his hands and not the ass beneath his own. 

He’s being helpful, not a creep. His noting of how firm and shapely Minseok’s body happens to be is purely a casual observation. Minseok's a good man and a tolerant one, and he already indulges Jongdae overmuch. Jongdae will take his cue from Minseok as to the tone of their relationship, be a better travelmate, try to look out for his Walker as well as Minseok looks after him. 

He’s unable to even imagine trying to do this without Minseok, and he’ll make his appreciation known. They’ve a long way yet to go together, and Jongdae hopes they’re able to support each other through the very end. 

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾


	4. Hum Note

# Hum࿄Note

The lychway to Phrygia is long and desolate, which seems somehow appropriate for the approach to the Temple of the Singing Bones. Their song can be heard from days away, an eerie moan that seems to settle into Jongdae’s ribcage. 

It’s echoed by the song of the packs of winter wolves that hunt the herds of muskox that roam the bleak, and for the first time that Jongdae’s seen, Tan must do more each night than keep them warm. Minseok, evidently used to the howling, yowling, and moaning all around them, sleeps like the dead his wards declare them to be. But Jongdae catches only small amounts of sleep, pressed tense against Minseok’s warmth and watching Tan stalk circles around the minims at which they rest.

Phrygia’s lychgate is set a long distance from the town, a single sepulchre with thick stone walls and multiple bronze gates. They obviously aim to keep the large predators well away from the population, to the point where the sepulchre seems designed to host at least two people overnight in addition to having stacked biers for the silenced, three high on each side. 

They’re all full, and two silenced are lying on the sepulchre floor as well.

Jongdae frowns at the wrapped bodies, made more eerie by the purple-white glow of the lychlight. It’s been more than two months since midwinter, enough time for Snow Walkers to attempt to deliver their wards and realize the impossibility. Hopefully they realized before they’d come upon the seething mass of shadow that blocked the way. Hopefully they returned to their home districts safely. Had they brought the silenced back with them? Left them on the road to Dominari?

“Stop fretting and come sleep,” Minseok instructs. 

Still frowning, Jongdae obeys, settling in beside the Snow Walker who only ever seems alarmed when Tan is unsettled. The tundra cat has been full of swagger on this journey, obviously confident in her ability to protect them from the wolves whose howls seem to surround them every night.

The trade-off for sleeping next to the dead is that the sounds of the wolves and the song of Phrygia’s bones are both muted by the thick stone walls of the sepulchre. Exhausted and sore from thrumming all day to counteract the way the wind whips his body heat away, Jongdae's asleep as soon as Minseok’s arm drapes over him.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Minseok has never seen Phrygia proper, but during training he’d been told it’s built into the walls of a canyon through which winds rush like stampeding muskox. Having once been caught in such a stampede, surviving only because Tan had crouched, snarling, over him and the silenced he’d been transporting, Minseok follows the footpath from the sepulchre to the town with trepidation. Tan refuses to go further than the lychgate, balled up against the leeward wall for refuge from the constant wind, watching after them with half-closed eyes.

The wind picks up the closer they get, swift enough to tug the breath from their lungs if they’re not careful, tucking faces into crooked elbows as they work to keep their footing on the windswept path. The song of the Bones surrounds them, and Minseok can feel the Resonance in it, feel how it both calls and drives away, warns and entices. Jongdae seems to feel it, too, because he switches his staff to his other hand in order to link arms with Minseok, shared mass making them both harder to stagger.

It’s still hard going. Still, they’ve no choice but to press on—the prophecy seemed pretty particular about the order they go in, and Minseok’s not going to argue with some long-dead seer. Head down and world narrowed to the stretch of snowy tundra just ahead of his feet, Minseok startles when a voice abruptly separates itself from the drone of the wind.

“Why are Walkers heading into town instead of easing our overflowing lychgate? Have you come to explain your failure?”

Minseok looks up, brows jumping to see two men looming over them in an odd sort of sledge. It has the usual runners, but it’s not drawn by animals and is pointed at one end instead of squared off. More strikingly, it has a tall pole in the middle of the square end, supporting a vaguely-triangular sheet that’s snapping in the wind.

“Sort of,” Jongdae answers, words ripped from his throat half-formed. “Please exclude us not from the town. We need help to set everything right again.”

The two men look at each other. The taller shrugs. The shorter huffs, then beckons to Jongdae and Minseok. 

“Get in. I’m High Cantor of the Bones Lee Donghae, and this is my son, Sehun. You two can come as far as the temple, at least—I’m eager to get to the bottom of this.”

Minseok and Jongdae exchange a glance not unlike the one shared by these two strangers a moment ago. In their case, it’s Jongdae who shrugs, and Minseok who huffs and beckons his charge forward.

Jongdae introduces them both, then climbs into the strange sledge. Minseok follows, laying their staves down along the sides and looking curiously at the sheet, attached not only to the upright pole but to a horizontal one that holds the bottom edge taut.

“We call them gustrunners,” the High Cantor says. “It’ll be safest for you both to lie down flat—the boom swings hard when we come about.” He pats the horizontal pole.

None of this makes any sense to Minseok, but keeping the Spark safe is his sworn duty. So he makes sure Jongdae’s laid out as flat and low as possible before tucking himself down beside him, one arm curved protectively over Jongdae’s body.

And then his stomach lurches as the gustrunner leaps into motion.

The High Cantor and his son are holding on to thick leather straps and leaning way out over the side of the gustrunner, evidently to balance the sledge as the wind grabs the sheet and pushes them forward. A moment later, Jongdae's laughing, propping himself up on his forearms and trying to see where they’re going.

“Coming about!” the High Cantor calls over the wind, and his son calls an acknowledgment.

Then suddenly the sheet is swinging across the gustrunner, pivoting on the pillar, the horizontal pole whooshing through the air mere fingerbreadths above Jongdae’s head.

Minseok pushes Jongdae’s shoulders back toward the bottom of the craft despite his protests, compromising by letting him roll over onto his back so he can at least watch the two men operate the gustrunner. They lean back and forward, tugging on lines or poles, working in concert together just as much as a conductor and a bellringer. Seems fitting for a High Cantor and his son.

As Jongdae watches them work, Minseok simply watches Jongdae. He looks so happy, for a moment all the shadows his face usually harbors are gone, melting away before child-like wonderment and pure untarnished joy.

It’s beautiful.

Jongdae’s beautiful.

And Minseok can no longer deny that he’s completely captivated by the boy in his arms.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Jongdae’s first view of Phrygia proper is upside down, the canyon walls jutting into view as he lies in the bottom of the gustrunner beneath Minseok’s protective arm.

The town sparkles in the long blue dawn, flashes of bronze weaving through tall pillars of ice that stud the canyon like notes on a stave, thick solitary columns followed by arpeggios of thinner ones. The wind blowing around and between them is clearly the source of the continuous hum, varying with the speed of the wind. The gustrunner weaves through the Bones like a steady countermelody, coming to a halt nearer a convex segment of wall with a long narrow bellcote jutting out into the canyon. 

The row of bells appear not to have the usual pull ropes, but flat, wide projections from the bottoms of the clappers that catch the wind and set the bells to tolling in heavy enough gusts of the omnipresent wind. It’s a chaotic sort of harmony, each note Resonant in its randomness, and though it flies in the face of everything Jongdae was taught as a Tenor, he still rather likes it.

His father would hate it.

The thought makes an ache stab through his heart, but at least it now comes with a wobbly smile.

And a squeeze from Minseok, who then helps him up out of the gustrunner so they can stand and gape at Phrygia instead of doing it lying down.

Everywhere there are sheets like the ones on the gustrunner, except attached in clusters around a central pivot point, spinning a rod together as the wind pushes past them. There are big ones, small ones, some with only two sheets, some with up to eight, giving an overall impression of a flock of white-winged seabirds tumbling through the canyon.

“Beautiful, is it not?” the High Cantor asks. When Jongdae and Minseok both nod and smile, he escorts them into what must be the Temple of the Bones. 

The canyon walls shift from ice to stone as they make their way into the temple, but the hum of the wind outside still vibrates through the walls. It’s somehow both unsettling and comforting, like the crackle the Tongues would make when Jongdeok fed the silenced to the flames. 

“Now then,” the High Cantor says when he’s led them to a sitting area. “Sehun, will you please fetch some food for our guests? And then help Sejeong make up a pair of rooms.”

“Just one room will be fine,” Jongdae blurts, cheeks warming quickly.

The High Cantor lifts a brow. “One room?”

“We, uh. We’re used to sharing sleeping furs for warmth, and we know we’re already imposing,” Jongdae explains. “A shared room is more than generous for those used to open sky or a sepulchre roof over their heads.”

“I see. One room, then, Sehunnie. Thank you.”

Jongdae and Minseok echo the High Cantor’s thanks as his son nods at both of them before disappearing down a corridor. 

“So, you’ve come to explain why the silenced lie in wait?”

“Among other reasons. The central fact to everything is that the Tongues of Life are extinguished, the temple is in ruins, and Dominari is inaccessible.”

The High Cantor blinks at that. “Well. This seems like a much bigger story than I was expecting.” He gestures to the cushioned settees carved into the walls. “Please make yourself comfortable, Walkers, and take your time in the telling.”

Jongdae takes a deep breath as he drops onto a padded stone bench beside Minseok. He hates this, hates having to relive it over and over, but the events must be reported. Warm pressure against his shoulder makes him look at Minseok, leaning against him slightly and regarding him with a gentle smile.

Nodding, Jongdae leans back, pressing their shoulders together firmly. He’s not burdened with telling this story alone. Minseok was there. Minseok will help. Just as Minseok's always there, always helpful, even if it’s simply as a reminder that they’re in this together.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

The High Cantor of the Bones is a kind-eyed, soft-spoken man who seems to dote on both his children. He’d not known Jongdae’s father, but his sympathy is so genuine Minseok half expects him to shed tears as Jongdae relates his tale. This High Cantor is totally in awe of the possibility of the Spark prophecy being fulfilled, but is confident that Phrygia will be safe from any creeping shadows.

“The Resonance protects this place,” he assures them. “It keeps the muskox herds migrating close enough that we can harvest what we need, but it keeps the wolf packs and the odd tundra cat that prey on the herds well away from the town. It’ll keep whatever this new threat is away, too.”

“I certainly hope so,” Jongdae says, not in a hurry to confront the things again himself. “The High Cantor of the Hide suspects that I need to learn some bit of Resonance from you that’ll reveal a small, faceted stone that could be necessary to relight the Tongues. Do you have any idea where such a thing might be?”

“I’ve certainly never seen anything like that. Our jewelry is mostly polished horn or hoof rather than metal set with stones, and we’ve no glass windows—the wind would rip them right out of their frames. And I’ve never heard of any of this miraculous Resonance you speak of, except in the old tales of the ancestors. Our hymns and cancions are exactly as Resonant as they are anywhere else. But you and your… companion?”

Minseok often wonders what exactly he is to Jongdae. To him, Jongdae is his ward, his charge, and he’ll take care of him and bring him where he needs to go. But it also feels like more than that, so he waits to see how Jongdae titles him. He needn’t wait very long.

“My escort,” Jongdae states easily, as if he’d not needed to think before answering. 

Minseok’s not sure how he feels about that. 

“You and your escort may have the full run of Phrygia—if you suspect what you seek is in a private house or business, take Sehun or Sejeong with you to request access in my name.”

“Thank you,” Jongdae says, smiling politely. 

Minseok’s seen enough of Jongdae’s smiles to know that this one’s a bit of a mask, probably because searching this massive, unfamiliar place for a tiny stone without so much as a suggested place to start is a daunting task.

“Of course,” the High Cantor says, returning Jongdae’s smile. 

Jongdae’s smile brightens when Sehun returns with two fragrant bowls, handing one to each of them and shrugging off their expressions of gratitude.

“I’ll leave you to your meal. Sehun will show you to your room when you’re finished, and you’re welcome to rest or begin your search as you prefer. Please have no hesitation to let us know if you need anything at all or if we can be of help in any way.”

More thanks are exchanged, then Sehun sits down across from them as they begin to eat. It’s muskox stewed with juniper berries, the tenacious little shrubs clinging to windswept rock faces that few other plants manage to colonize. Jongdae hums his approval, and then immediately looks at Minseok to share a smile around his mouthful. His eyes sparkle in the lamplight, and Minseok decides he cares little what title Jongdae gives him as long as he keeps looking at him like that.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

The room Sehun shows them to is as basic as a Walker’s cell except that it has the luxury of a balcony. It’d not felt like they’d climbed that many steps, but they’re surprisingly high up, with a lovely view of the valley in the full light of the short winter day. There’s no window in the stone wall between the interior room and the icy balcony beyond, merely a sliding door framed in bronze and covered with evenweave like the gustrunner, but these are padded thick to insulate the room from the cold air outside.

“The wind keeps the ice cool enough to be stable, even in summer,” Sehun says when Minseok exclaims over the translucent slab of ice and slatted walls that allow them to step out into the open air. “But we insulate the exterior stone walls well to keep the heat where it warms us instead of possibly melting the ice, so leave not the exterior door open unnecessarily.”

Sehun points to embroidery on the door that reiterates this point in both words and illustrations, and they both agree to abide by these instructions. Like any High Cantor’s son, Sehun rattles off the service and meal times like he could recite them in his sleep, and then he leaves them to their rest.

There are still a few hours of daylight left, but they’ve been travelling for ten days. With the wind’s song dampened by the insulating fleece hanging from the walls and no howling predators in earshot, all Jongdae would like to do is crawl into the bed and finally get some proper sleep.

Minseok bustles around, arranging their packs and staves tidily as Jongdae strips down to his underclothes. Minseok chuckles at him when he turns around to see him ready for sleep, but Jongdae only yawns.

“Lie down with me, Seok?”

“I’m better rested than you are, Chenny. You sleep if you need to, though. You’ve endured much.”

“So’ve you. Lie down with me.”

Minseok tilts his head as he smiles at Jongdae softly. “If you like,” he says, pulling his sweater over his head. “I’m becoming truly spoiled, sleeping on a mattress beneath woolens, and during the day, no less.”

“Be spoiled with me, then.” Jongdae yawns, taking up his usual position nearest the wall and waiting for Minseok to crawl in beside him.

Minseok does so with a soft little chuckle. Jongdae settles against him with an exhausted sigh.

“Seok, this is a huge place to look for a little stone.”

“It is,” Minseok agrees. “But you’re the Great Bell. You may need to search for a while, but you’re meant to find it, so you will.”

“I’m meant to find it? You’ll not help me?”

“I highly doubt having a Walker with you will inspire people to let you search their homes or businesses,” Minseok laughs. “You’ll get much farther going around with the High Cantor’s son, as he suggested.”

“He said you’d free run of Phrygia, too.”

“He did, but you’ll have far more success without me. I’ll be fine remaining in the temple. I can practice my reading.”

Jongdae tries not to frown. He tries not to cling to Minseok or bury his face in his shoulder. He mostly fails.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Once Jongdae’s breathing has evened out, Minseok carefully slips from the bed, adding an extra blanket over his charge to replace the warmth of his body. He knows if he lies there too long, his restlessness will wake his charge, and Jongdae could certainly do with catching up on his sleep.

He dresses and steps out into the hall, looking around for some clue as to the way back to the sitting area they’d been in earlier. Advancing to the closest intersecting hallway, he’s relieved when he sees the High Cantor stepping out of an archway.

“Ah, Walker Minseok. May I direct you somewhere specific, or are you already searching our temple for this stone?”

“I was merely looking for a quiet place to sit, or perhaps something it might be all right for me to read?”

“Ah, well, the temple library is just through that arch. I’m afraid it’s nothing but hymnals and historical accounts, nothing too exciting.”

“I’m sure it’ll be more than adequate for my purposes,” Minseok assures him with a smile.

“Then please, by all means, enjoy yourself. If you’d still like to read after the light has faded, please take your selection back to the sitting room—we disallow any flame in the library just to be safe around all that dusty vellum.”

The library is much less grand than those at Dorus, but Minseok still finds an interestingly-illustrated hymnal and settles with it at a stone ledge adjoined by a pair of low bronze stools. There’s a spot of light in the center of the stone, bouncing from an angled sheet of polished bronze that seems to receive the light from another angled sheet set into the wall. It’s a clever way to reflect the sun’s rays into the room, and Minseok carefully opens the hymnal beneath the convenient source of light.

“Well, who do we have here?”

Minseok looks up from the hymnal to incline his head to a lovely young woman. She’s slim and moves with a light step, wavy hair falling around her shoulders. Upon meeting his eyes, hers curve cutely as she smiles.

“Apologies,” Minseok says. “I meant not to intrude, but the High Cantor said I might study in here while the light is good.”

“You’re not intruding,  _ I _ am,” the young woman says. “I’m Sejeong, the High Cantor’s daughter. I’ve been curious to meet our guests since being asked to set up your room. We get so few visitors, you know.”

“I can imagine.” Minseok returns her bright smile with a more reserved one. “Um. I’m Minseok. I’m a Snow Walker, if they’d not told you.”

Sejeong is either confident in her attachment to her soul or entirely unsuperstitious, because she bounces over to sit across the ledge from Minseok. “They did tell me,” she states. “What they failed to tell me is how handsome you are. Which is just my luck—first good-looking guy I meet in years that’s not known me since I was in nappies, and he’s both interested in men and pledged to endlessly cross the bleak in service of the silenced.”

She leans close over the table. “Your partner’s just as cute as you are, is he not? Go ahead—rub it in.”

Minseok’s smile grows. “Jongdae's very handsome. But we’re not romantic partners—we’re bound by the prophecy. I’m merely his escort.” Minseok swallows down the hint of discomfort the word evokes.

“My brother said you cuddled the whole way to Phrygia.”

“We’ve never been in a gustrunner before,” Minseok laughs. “Forgive us for seeking a little reassurance during our first time being flung ahead of the wind.”

“Fair,” Sejeong smiles. “You’re still going to stride off again whether you’re interested in girls or not, and I’m not looking for a broken heart. So let’s be friends while you’re here—I can show you around, you can tell me all about the places you’ve been and if all the rumors are true.”

“I’d rather not disturb the townsfolk by going outside the temple,” Minseok says with an apologetic smile. “But we can still trade stories—for example, you could tell me what all the spinning sheets are about.”

Walking the bleak is a life of fur and stone, but brief glimpses of towns via lychrows have shown him that it’s generally bronze and leather that hold Elyxion together. In addition to being used in outerwear, tents and awnings, it’s usually bronze-framed leather that forms furniture, interior walls, and even the beds of wagons and sledges when layered and stiffened with animal glue. His experience with evenweave has been mainly as something the silence are wrapped in, undyed and thrice-blessed. But here in Phrygia, evenweave is everywhere, forming clothing, furnishings, and even the shell of the gustrunner that had carried them here. Which is eye-opening enough, but at least analogous to similar goods made of leather elsewhere. But this is the first time he’s seen any sort of spinning… whatever they are.

“Spinning sheets—oh, do you mean the windmills? They spin bronze paddles in stone cauldrons of water, which makes it heat up. We cook food like this, heat our homes, heat water for bathing or for wool washing and dying, whatever we need. And we use the spinning to help us, well, spin. Which is why our evenweave is the best in all of Elyxion.”

“Clever,” Minseok says. He’d been wondering how the temple felt so warm with just the small flames from the little tallow lamps. 

“And cozy,” Sejeong agrees. “Now tell me—is it true that, when a Walker runs out of food, they eat the flesh of the silenced?”

Minseok recoils. “Of course not. In dire straits, our companions hunt for us. Or, as a last resort, serve as food.”

“You’d eat your pet before you’d gnaw on a dead guy?” Sejeong looks appalled.

“If I absolutely must,” Minseok says. “But those chances are so low as to be not worth worrying about. Tan has always taken good care of me.”

“Probably because Tan knows what’s on the menu if not,” Sejeong snorts.

Minseok smiles fully at that. “Perhaps. Tell me about gustrunners. The people of Phrygia harness the wind in so many ways.”

“Wind’s all we’ve got,” Sejeong declares. “If you’d hear about gustrunners, ask Sehun. He’s got a single-hander that’ll carry one or two besides himself—I’m sure he’d love to show it off to a new appreciative audience.”

“Jongdae would like that,” Minseok muses, remembering how much he’d enjoyed the ride to Phrygia. 

“Jongdae is the other Walker’s name?”

Minseok shakes his head. “He’s not a Walker—he’s here visiting the High Cantor,” he says, unsure as to how much of Jongdae’s story is his to tell. 

“Interesting. Not a Walker, but travels with one. Not romantic partners, but sharing a single room. Not shy, but wishes not to intrude. The pair of you are already the most interesting thing that’ll happen in Phrygia this year, and it’s not even spring yet!”

Thinking of the shadows pouring toward Yon and then Dorus, Minseok can only offer a half smile. “I certainly hope so.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Phrygia is an endless maze of interconnected rooms and staircases and bronze-runged ladders that at first seems to have little organization at all. But the more he wanders, the more sense it starts to make, with living areas above workspaces, everything stacked close to the canyon walls to make use of the light and wind whenever possible. Deeper within the cliff are usually things like bedrooms or storage areas, places where being darker and cooler is not as much of a negative. Jongdae's grateful for the moonglobe and the warming thrum, but it’s far more comfortable than walking the bleak, at least.

For three days, he burns the daylight nosing around in businesses, finding this isolated place to be full of curious but reserved people more than happy to let him rummage through back rooms and squint at the architecture so long as he drops the High Cantor’s name and congenially answers a stream of curious questions. Jongdae’s much less desperate for the sound of voices external to his own thoughts now that he and Minseok are conversing easily, but it’s still nice to meet new people. Well, it would be nicer if he needn’t answer the same set of questions over and over, especially since he has no real answers for half of them and feels strangely protective of the answers for the rest.

At least by the third day, the talk about him has spread enough that people now generally know who he is and why he’s there. So he’s not pressed to answer questions so much as confirm or deny statements, which is at least slightly less monotonous. It’s interesting to see what rumors have spread about him—and about Minseok.

“You must be a brave man, to walk the roads of the dead with one of ‘em. Have you seen its face? Is it frozen flesh or just a skull?”

Crouched under a shelving unit carved into the wall, Jongdae twists around to give the chandler a bewildered look. “Whose face? The silenced waiting at the lychgates are well wrapped.”

“Not the silenced that walk not for themselves, but the one who transports ‘em,” the woman clarifies. “Like, does it still have a nose? Is it frozen blue or broken off?”

“Do you mean Minseok? The Snow Walker?”

“Ah, they’ve names, then? Is it stitched in their furs, or did you just name it yourself to try and make it less uncanny?”

Jongdae blinks. “Minseok's a living person,” he states firmly. “An incredibly handsome one, with a nice, healthy nose and everything.”

The chandler blinks right back. “Surely not. No living person could survive crossing the bleak on foot.”

“Yet I did it, did I not?” Jongdae smiles.

The woman smiles back. “Ah, fair point, well made. But if he’s alive and handsome, why’s he hiding himself away? Surely you could search for this bauble faster with a pair of you looking.”

Even though Jongdae agrees, he feels the need to defend Minseok’s absence. “Walker Minseok has no wish to provoke superstitions by moving among the townsfolk. He dislikes causing distress.”

“If he’s handsome as you say, the only ones’ll be distressed are the single menfolk, seeing as how a rare newcomer will steal all of the attention.”

Jongdae laughs along with her, hoping that Minseok meant what he’d said in Dorus about being here for Jongdae and not dalliances. Then he feels a knot of something growing in the pit of his stomach, because why does he care who Minseok dallies with? He’ll have a warm bed to sleep in whether Minseok’s in it or not, and it’s not like Minseok would fall in love and forsake his self-undertaken duties and stay behind, leaving Jongdae to find his way alone.

Would he?

Surely not.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Sejeong is a delight, and Minseok finds it more than pleasant to spend his days in her company while Jongdae searches for whatever it is that they’re meant to find. She seems to have a lot of pride in Phrygia’s fabric production, and while Minseok has had little direct contact with the evenweave since leaving the Temple of the Silent Heart, he still appreciates the ingenuity and effort required to produce it in such quantity and quality.

“We process wool from all over Elyxion, but we also set up netting, loose-knit from fine yarn on needles thick as your arm, and stretch them across the canyon in late spring,” she explains as Minseok fingers muskox undercoat fibers so soft and light as to hardly register against his fingertips. “The song of the Bones keeps them closer then, or rather, it keeps the predators away from their newborn calfs if they stay close to the mouth of the canyon. So the wind pulls their undercoat away as it’s shed, and we gather as much as we can. We also comb out the new growth from the bachelor bulls hunted in the late fall, those that are unlikely to contribute to the next generation and that’ll compete for winter forage with the pregnant cows.”

Minseok nods, familiar with the concept of culling those that drain resources for the wellbeing of the group.

“Their outer coat’s no good for spinning, but not only does it make the warmest outerwear when left on the hides, it’s such good carpet you can walk barefoot on it in the winter without freezing your toes. But since the oxdown is softer and warmer than wool, we reserve most of it for you Walkers.”

Minseok nods again. The fine oxdown yarn is knit into well-insulating full-length underclothes for top and bottom that chafe not against the skin even after walking a full day. 

“Which we very much appreciate,” he smiles.

Or, rather, which Jongdae's currently appreciating—Minseok had replaced his underthings with lofted lambswool versions, content to thrum a little more so that Jongdae can wear the warmest clothing Minseok can provide. Jongdae had protested, whether Minseok’s sacrifice or having to wear secondhand clothes Minseok’s not sure, but he’d pulled out his I’m-responsible-for-you voice and he’d given in. 

“How long will you be staying? If you’re in need of mending or replacements, we can take care of that if you’ve the time to wait.”

“That’s not necessary,” Minseok says with a smile. He has no funds of his own, is in fact forbidden from having any, and he’ll not waste the coins the High Cantor of the Blood had given Jongdae, not on anything so frivolous as this.

“Are you sure?” Sejeong coaxes. “I know you’ve no way to pay, but Walkers can accept provisions donated by an appreciative populace, can they not? Even if it’s not food?”

“We’re not usually offered anything besides food,” Minseok hedges. 

Once, a mourning mother loathe to let go the body of her young son had only managed to do so after wrapping the tiny form in an exquisitely-knit shawl depicting the cold beauty of Elyxion’s winters. Snowflakes, snowdrifts, and lean, prowling wolves had been picked out in lace, and she’d actually leaned in to kiss Minseok between the eyes, that being one of the few exposed bits of skin. 

“I know he’s not able to go to the dance wrapped like this, and I know you’re not able to carry him all the way to the Tongues,” she’d said, eyes wet, as she’d rubbed lanolin transferred from Minseok’s face into lips cracked from crying. “But you’re someone’s son, too, someone who must’ve mourned you like the dead, and I appreciate your graciousness in painting this illusion for a grieving mother. So when you must unwrap my darling boy, keep the shawl for yourself. Let it warm your body as you’ve warmed this broken heart.”

She’d filled his pack with hard-boiled seabird eggs, a rare treat, and spoke a mother’s blessing over him, a traditional chant for a grown child leaving their parents’ home to make their own way in life.

“I’ll never get to say it for my son, and your mother never got to say it for you, so we’ll each play the role we were denied,” she’d said. 

Minseok had stood still and solemn as she’d done so, her frozen child cradled in his arms, and felt the Resonance of her love wash over him. That particular journey to the Temple of the Tongues had been unusually quick and easy, and Minseok has no question as to why.

He’d not kept the shawl, though, because the bleak is too harsh a place for such finery. He’d given it to High Cantor Changmin the next time he’d stopped at Locris, and the aging man had wrapped it close around himself for the rest of his days as he’d huddled by the nursing companions. High Cantor Leeteuk had inherited it along with the title, but Minseok supposes that would please the grieving mother just as much. They were motherless sons as well.

But one thing a motherless son at the Temple of the Silent Heart never learns how to do properly is evade, having no one to convince not to punish them for childhood mischief. There's no room for untruth or deception in the bleak, no use in attempting to swindle mercy from the merciless. So Sejeong only gives Minseok a knowing look, picking a knotted length of walrus-hide cord from a hook on the storeroom wall.

“Arms up,” she commands.

Minseok judges it easier to simply obey. The girl is nothing if not headstrong, and it would be a welcome luxury to have if they can be made before they leave.

She measures him everywhere, pushing and prodding at his limbs to position them, tightening the cord to account for the layers of clothing he’s currently wearing.

Leaning back against a mostly-empty shelf, Minseok grunts sharply when she tightens the cord overmuch around his upper thigh. 

Sejeong laughs. “Usually there’s a lot less clothing involved,” she says, winking up at him from where she’s knelt on the floor. “But we take advantage of the situation we find ourselves in, do we not?”

“We do,” Minseok huffs. “I appreciate your generosity.”

“Anything for such a handsome, hardworking servant of the silenced,” she murmurs, standing up to mark the set of measurements on an earthwax tablet. 

Minseok laughs. “I’m hardly working these days. And my charge is anything but silent. He even talks in his sleep.”

“How endearing,” Sejeong coos. “You sound truly close—he’s never far from your thoughts, is he?”

“Of course not. The Resonance set him before me—since that moment, he's the reason for all that I do.”

“Surely you pursue your own pastimes while he strives to fulfill the prophecy. Are you not here with me?”

“I suppose, but even that which I take up for myself—learning to read, for example—ends up serving the Spark. I’ve accepted that my life is wholly his, and we both belong to the Resonance.”

Sejeong coos again, giving him big blinking eyes and a dreamy smile. “You’re both such a waste,” she huffs. “The most romantic tale I’ve ever heard, and it’s between two men who’re not even a proper couple, just a pair of former strangers sent off to save the world.”

Minseok laughs. “There's no room for romance in the bleak,” he states. “His survival is Elyxion’s survival, and I shy not away from duty.”

“You shy away from talking about your feelings, though,” she chides. “Just admit it. You’ve fallen for him, and you’ll not know what to do with yourself when your epic quest is concluded.”

Minseok laughs again but it sounds false even to his own ears. “I’ll resume my regular duties. Many silenced await entry to the dance.”

“I suppose Snow Walkers will be sorely busy once the Tongues are restored,” Sejeong allows. “Resonance willing, that’s sooner rather than later.”

“Resonance willing,” Minseok agrees. “Speaking of the passage of time, I should see how Jongdae’s getting on with the search. Perhaps there’s something I can do to help.”

“Yes, go to your Spark,” Sejeong coos. “Sehun or I will bring dinner to your room.”

Humming his enthusiasm, Minseok thanks the girl for her company and the upcoming meal before going off in search of his charge.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Minseok's a grown man who can do as he pleases. Jongdae does not own him and has no right to critique how he spends his time. Jongdae should not even  _ care _ as long as the Snow Walker is there to escort him to the next town on their seemingly-endless journey. 

Why does Jongdae care?

Why did he feel struck in the chest by the sight of Minseok being serviced in the storeroom by the High Cantor’s daughter? Why did his gut twist low at the way Minseok had groaned his pleasure, short and soft in a way that echoes in Jongdae’s mind? Why’d he flashed burning cold with rage at the girl’s answering laugh when Jihyo had been just as proud and smug at her ability to harvest ecstasy? Why’d Jongdae not immediately given them privacy, instead of standing there as if made of ice while the High Cantor’s daughter had teased Minseok about the unorthodox nature of their dalliance? While Minseok had thanked her politely, as if she’d been providing him a hot meal or bedding for a lychrow cot?

To the Walker, sex obviously means no more than hunger or fatigue, simply one more need to be sated. There were no promises or professions, only the minimum of affection. An exchange between acquaintances, entirely meaningless to Minseok.

So why does it mean so much to Jongdae?

“It means nothing,” he says aloud to their empty room, forcing his fists to unball. “It matters not.”

“What matters not?”

Jongdae startles at the sudden presence in the room. “Do they teach you to walk like that, or are you just a natural sneak?”

Minseok pauses, angled brows suddenly high. “I walk like Tan,” he says cautiously. “She transfers her weight smoothly and gradually. Seemed like a good way to avoid breaking through surface crusting.” He tilts his head, blinking those big dark eyes at Jongdae. “Search not going well?”

“You should be helping me, not messing around with the High Cantor’s daughter,” Jongdae blurts.

Minseok blinks. “Of course. I’ll assist you in any way I can.” He pads over, silent as the cat whose gait he appropriated, and puts an arm around Jongdae’s shoulders. “It’s almost supper time. Tell me where you’ve been so far, and we’ll make a plan. I’ll go out after supper and search while you rest.”

Hot shame washes over Jongdae. Minseok's always ready to be the hero, to pick up Jongdae’s slack, to be the proper Hope Elyxion deserves. What does it matter if he found a few moments to share pleasure with a pretty partner? It fails to tarnish his character or diminish his deeds. It should’ve been Minseok who was born with the Great Bell’s voice, and Jongdae, selfish, childish Chen, who should’ve been given up to the dead.

“It’s fine,” Jongdae says, shrugging off Minseok’s arm. “You needn’t do my duty on top of your own.”

“My duty is to take care of you,” Minseok says. “What you need, I’ll provide, if at all within my power.”

“What I  _ need _ is to stop being a baby,” Jongdae huffs. “It’s fine. I can handle it—you said you’d get me safely where I need to be, and that’s what you always do. It’s not your fault I’m terrible at this. I’m sorry for snapping at you. You deserve it not—I should not take my stress out on you.”

“I’m happy to be of use, even if it’s only to absorb some of that stress,” Minseok says, voice downy instead of knife-sharp like Jongdae’s. “Say whatever makes you feel better—you’ll not drive me from my path.”

“Lashing out at you only makes me feel worse,” Jongdae admits, sprawling over the bed on his back. “You’re so good to me, Seok, and I’m being such a brat.”

“You’re allowed to feel however you feel. It’s understandable that you hate this. The Resonance needs us to walk this road. It requires not that we enjoy it.”

“I was taught to serve with a grateful heart,” Jongdae huffs. “I feel the opposite of grateful most of the time.”

“That only makes you human,” Minseok soothes. 

Jongdae snorts. “Then what’re you? You accept and adapt to everything, sacrifice anything you own without protest, never even think of giving up.”

“I’m just as human,” Minseok chuckles. “I was simply conditioned young. I was only grateful to’ve been a dreg as opposed to death, and aside from selecting a companion, that was the only choice I was ever offered. Eat what’s provided or starve. Make it to shelter or freeze. Learn to avoid danger or be killed. Usher a distressed Tenor to safety or let him die. Help him complete his quest or watch the shadows sweep over Elyxion unchecked.” He shrugs. “I merely chose life every time, Chenny. I’ll always choose life. As long as I possibly can.”

Groaning with frustration, Jongdae sits up. “I also choose life,” he declares. “It would just be nice if, once in a while, that also meant  _ easy.” _

Another chuckle. “I’ll do what I can to ease your path,” Minseok says. “I’m sorry for bowing to superstition rather than efficiency. I should’ve been helping you look. Please forgive my cowardice.”

Jongdae gapes. “You’re not a coward. You’re just polite. Something I’m forgetting how to be.” He stands and steps over to Minseok where he’s resting a shoulder against the exterior wall like it’s not freezing cold.

“Minseok. I may not be grateful that I’m the one trying to fulfill this prophecy, but I’m grateful to have you with me. I’m sure no other escort would be as pragmatic yet dedicated.”

Minseok’s cheeks go a little pink. “Well. I do my best.”

“It’s very appreciated.”

Minseok drops his gaze to his boots. “It’s selfish, but I’m grateful, too. That it was my feet the Resonance set you at. That you allow me to be part of your triumph.”

“I’ve not triumphed yet,” Jongdae huffs. 

“You will, though,” Minseok says, voice just as sure as when he sets their wards. “You will.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Used to fewer hours of sleep than Jongdae needs, Minseok gets up and searches Phrygia for hours after Jongdae falls asleep. It’s difficult to extract himself from the bed when he’d rather stay wrapped around his charge like they’re two-ply yarn, but he manages. He owes Jongdae for letting him down, for spending days chatting idly while the Spark searched alone.

So he searches the temple from top to bottom, all six stories, every room on every floor that has no sleeping person inside it. He concentrates on closets and store rooms, because the prophecy says ‘fear’ had hidden these stones. If Minseok were afraid someone would take something valuable, he’d definitely hide it among boring, everyday, non-valuable things. He meticulously picks through these everyday things by lychlight, careful to leave them tidy and undisturbed when he’s done.

Well, so he thought.

“Are you the little fairy that’s been tidying all our closets?” Sejeong asks one morning when she brings them their breakfast of stewed muskox and sweetvetch.

Minseok feels his face heat. “Uh, sorry? I thought I put everything back where I found it.”

She laughs, bright and melodic. “No apologies! I feel like I should be giving you my allowance for doing all my chores for me.” She waves Minseok off when he protests that Walkers earn no coin. “I know, I know. But it’s appreciated, and we’re even more determined to finish some quality oxdown goods for you—no, argue not. Not all of us get to go off and save the world, so let us homebodies do what we can for those that do.”

“Well. Thank you,” Minseok says, unsure what else to say.

Jongdae also seems mute, chewing his breakfast without looking up at either of them. 

“The knitting guild would have your measurements, too, Jongdae,” Sejeong continues. “I brought my tablet and cord, so if you’ll tolerate me getting a little familiar before you finish dressing, I’ll not have to squeeze you as tightly as I did poor Minseok.”

“You needn’t—”

“We needn’t, but we wish to, and you’ll let us spoil you. You’re only saving the whole clapping world.”

“I’m unable to even find a stupid stone, saving the world is still a tall order,” Jongdae huffs.

“This is meant to be something the ancestors stashed away somewhere?”

Jongdae nods, chewing and swallowing a mouthful of stew. “The other two were sort of hidden in plain sight, small round faceted stones that were set somewhere special enough not to be discarded but familiar enough to escape particular attention.”

“One was in a finger ring, the other a fancy window,” Minseok adds. “I thought perhaps a trinket was stowed in the temple somewhere, which is why I disturbed your storage.

“Hmm. I’ve no knowledge about any sort of trinket except for the lesser Soundbow my father wears for services. But this is not the original temple, you know. Phrygia was settled starting near the mouth of the canyon and expanded closer to the bones as more space was needed. The original temple was much smaller, one of the first structures carved from the wall. It’s the elementary school now, actually.”

“I thought the school unlikely to still have any sort of bauble laid by,” Jongdae says. “But if it was set in the original architecture…”

Sejeong smiles. “Let me measure you peacefully, and I’ll happily escort you to take a look. The teachers all love me, so they’ll let us take a look around.”

Minseok smiles as Jongdae concentrates very hard on not complaining as he stands there in his underclothes, letting Sejeong wrap the cord repeatedly around limbs and torso. When she kneels to take his outseam, inseam, and leg circumferences, his face gets redder and redder. Minseok had at least had his sheepskin breeches between his undercarriage and any incidental contact from Sejeong’s efficient hands, but Jongdae has only a thin layer of oxdown.

“Stop flinching,” Sejeong scolds. “Everybody has a body, and I was raised with a brother. If you hold still, it’ll be over with sooner.”

Jongdae manages to comply, lips trapped between his teeth and eyes on the ceiling. Minseok has to bite his own lip to keep from laughing. Sejeong is a pretty girl, certainly pretty enough to have caught Jongdae’s eye. And he’d been a bit annoyed that Minseok had been spending time with her, had he not? Perhaps Jongdae has a little crush. How cute.

Except the thought of sleeping in an empty bed because Jongdae had made alternate arrangements leaves the stew sitting sour in his gut. He’d love to be all the Spark needs, but of course most men prefer the intimate company of women. Minseok's dedicated to ensuring all Jongdae’s needs are met, even if he’s not personally the one to meet them.

He’s not truly sure he’s willing to meet them, anyway.

Well, his body is definitely willing. Every morning he has to remind himself of his role before he can embarrass himself with the sweet little body in bed with him. But he’s there for Jongdae, to be what Jongdae needs him to be, to support and encourage, convey and take care of as best he can. He’s Jongdae’s escort, the Stave with which the Clef shall endure. He’s not there to seduce the kid, even if he were actually interested in men and not merely willing to be used to pay his way to safety. Let the girl take care of the boy—Jongdae will still be Minseok’s to take care of, still sleep close on the way to their next destination—if they can ever manage to find the Star that High Cantor Byun thinks should be here. 

“Will Minseok be joining us at the school?” Sejeong’s voice cuts through Minseok’s internal lecture.

Minseok opens his mouth to decline, thinking that letting the two spend the day flirting in front of cute kids would open opportunities for play afterwards. It’ll be good to see Jongdae relaxed, and Minseok can spend the day searching the rest of the temple stores just in case it is a boxed-up bauble.

But Jongdae’s already nodding. “Seok has been there when I found the stone both other times. We’ve been searching separately and had no luck—perhaps we’re meant to look together. Unlock with song and Stave, right?”

Jongdae’s looking over at Minseok with a warm expectancy, holding out his hand toward him as if he’s unable to imagine going without him. Minseok finds a smile curving his lips without thought as he sets his palm against Jongdae’s. 

“If my charge would have me close at hand, at hand is where I’ll be.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Searching the elementary school is, to say the least, not the smoothest process. Each classroom—partitioned from the former naos with walls of bronze and padded evenweave—is full of adorable children who immediately crave the attention of the visitors. Particularly Sejeong, evidently a much-beloved public figure. And Minseok, who crouches low, arms spread into sheltering wings, hovering reverently around small bodies he does not quite dare to embrace. His face is more animated than Jongdae’s ever seen it, reacting to every little thing the children tell him like it’s Resonance itself.

Perhaps it is.

Children cling to Jongdae, too, and he’s charmed by their bright smiles and earnest entreaties. Somehow, he minds not answering the same questions over and over for this audience, though his ability to crawl around to look for anything unusual in the architecture is rather hampered by the herd of tiny mimics doing the same thing.

“Are you a fairy?”

“Are you a cantor?”

“Are you a reindeer? Can I ride on your back?”

“Are you looking for a button? My sister swallowed a button.”

“You’re looking for a stone? Kookie swallowed a stone.”

“I ate an earring once. My big sister was super mad.”

“I ate a whole walrus once! Have you ever seen a real walrus? Are they bigger than you?”

“I’ll be bigger than you when I grow up. And then I’ll save Elyxion, too!”

“I’ll bring you all the rocks! Let’s go outside!”

“Let’s play tag! You’re it!”

Jongdae’s face hurts from smiling at all the cuteness by the time they break for lunch, but he’s also  _ exhausted. _ and they’ve only searched half the school. The school’s not even that big!

“You’ve got it just as bad for him as he does for you,” Sejeong laughs, folding herself onto the child-sized bench beside Jongdae. 

“Who?” Jongdae asks, pulling his eyes from where Minseok’s playing calves-and-wolf with a trio of giggle-screeching kids. If the winter wolves of the bleak were as cute and soft as the one the Walker is impersonating, Elyxion would be overrun with uneaten muskox calves.

“Your handsome escort.” She elbows him playfully. “You’re cute together.”

“With the kids? Yeah. They’re adorable.”

Sejeong throws her hands up in the air. “You’re both hopeless,” she huffs. “Let’s finish eating so you two can go back to looking for your stone between mooning over each other.”

“Mooning? No,” Jongdae dismisses. “Our relationship’s not like that. It’s fine if you two have something going on while we’re here.”

“Us two?” Sejeong leans away from Jongdae as if that might help her see him better. “What? No. Just no. Argh, I’m probably not meant to interfere with this because it’s all prophecy and I truly wish to not be swallowed up by shadows but—Jongdae.” Sejeong claps her hands on either side of Jongdae’s face. “What’s the first thing you think about when you wake up in the morning?

“The first thing? I dunno. Minseok?”

“And what’s the first thing you see when you blink the sleep from your eyes?”

“Uh. Usually Minseok.”

“There you go then.” She releases him. “Just think about that.”

“What? I mean, he’s like, right there. Of course I think about him and see him or whatever. I think about him and see him all the time.”

Sejeong drops her head back and releases a frustrated growl. “I hate prophecies. I mean, I’m glad you’re here and saving us, but I just would—” She makes weird grabby motions at Minseok, then at Jongdae, then brings her hands together with a thwack. “You’re worse than my brother and that Taozi girl. At least they both admit they like each other, even if they’re both too dumb and shy to do anything about it.”

“I like Minseok!” Jongdae defends. “He’s great. I’d have never gotten this far without him, even forgetting that he’s saved my life a bunch of times. Just having him with me is. Well. It’s truly nice not to face this alone.”

“You should tell him that.”

“I have.”

“I mean with your mouth.”

Jongdae’s brow furrows. “How else would I tell him?”

Sejeong buries her face in her hands. “Resonance preserve us all.”

They return to their search, making it through the rest of the classrooms just before the ending bell sends all of the children screaming for their outerwear and streaming from the building. Sejeong has been huffing and growling all afternoon, and is entirely slumped by the time they follow the children out of the school. Her head is down, hands dangling listlessly, making a small whine in the back of her throat.

“Why the slack ropes, little sis?”

Jongdae looks up to see Sehun sauntering towards them with a little smirk. Sejeong lifts her head as if pulled by a walrus-hide cord, then flings herself into her brother’s arms.

“Hunnie! They’re so cute and dumb and I’ve spent the  _ whole day _ watching them be cute and dumb and I can say  _ nothing _ because of the prophecy and can you  _ please _ save me from this slow torture.”

“Uh. I mean. I can take them gustrunning. There’s still an hour or two before it’s too dark to steer safely, plenty of time to make a loop around the Ennead.”

“Yes!” Sejeong crows. “That’ll be super romantic, and then  _ you _ can suffer.” She spins back around to face Jongdae and Minseok. “You guys would like to go gustrunning, right?”

A memory surfaces of Minseok’s wide, gummy smile every time Jongdae had looked over at him in the gustrunner on their way into Phrygia. Minseok's full of half smiles, slightly curved lips, but rarely does he grin like that. Even with the kids he’d been adorable, soft, playful in a way Jongdae has never seen before, but he’d still been in shepherd mode. Jongdae would rather see him in pure wonderment mode again, enjoying a moment without feeling responsible for anyone else, without the weight of duty so heavy on his shoulders.

“I’d enjoy that,” he says, happy to see Minseok nodding beside him.

“You coming, sis?”

_ “No.” _

“Wow.” Sehun blinks. “All right, then. We’ll just take my little Vivi. She can fit the three of us no problem.”

“ViVi?”

“Yeah, we like to name our runners. They all look rather alike so this way we can tell them apart and know whose is whose. I called mine ViVi because gusting in her makes me feel so alive.”

“Makes sense to me.” Jongdae points his smile up at Sehun but it’s truly for himself, for finding a way to choose a little life on behalf of his deliverer of the dead.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

Prior to their arrival in Phrygia, it’d been a long time since Minseok had ridden in anything. Snow Walkers walk, towing the silenced behind them on sledges, because all are equally humble in death. Comfortable or struggling, loved or lonely, everyone ends up sliding feet-first through the bleak behind someone paid only in food and basic lodging for their service. 

There are no elaborate ceremonies, no distinction of station, no difference between male or female, old or young. Only rarely does anyone wait with the silenced for a Walker to arrive at all, like the mother who’d blessed him in place of her frozen child. It’s almost always a child when someone waits, and for those that sit in the cold for days to personally hand him their silenced beloved, Minseok's extra gentle.

He still attaches the sturdy, thrice-blessed ropes to the ankles as usual, chanting the words of binding that are meant to tow the soul along with the body so it lingers not near the earth instead of ascending to dance across the stars. But then if he’s able, he lifts the silenced child into his arms as he’d done with the shawl-wrapped son, cradling it as reverently as he can despite the stiff awkwardness of his burden. The parent’s burden is far greater, so he endures until he’s out of sight, not towing the body where the grief-stricken survivor can see it. Let them imagine their precious child cradled all the way to the release of the Tongues.

But the Tongues dance no more, and Minseok has escorted no silenced for months. Instead, he’s escorted Jongdae, who’d started out fairly silent, still spends long stretches without words. But there's life in Jongdae, and more and more frequently, flashes of joy.

He’s yelling that joy to the canyon at the moment, braced in the hull of Sehun’s gustrunner in front of Minseok. Jongdae has his fists raised in excitement, sitting between Minseok’s knees, both of them with booted feet hooked into the leather stirrups designed to keep them safely within the craft. There are handholds, too, beside their hips, but since Jongdae’s not using his, Minseok’s compelled to wrap his arms around Jongdae’s narrow waist. 

He could say it’s out of concern for his charge’s safety, but he’d be lying. He trusts Sehun to pilot them safely (if rapidly) around and between the towering pillars of ice, or he would never have allowed his ward to climb into the gustrunner in the first place. Minseok holds Jongdae’s torso because he desires to, desires to feel the solid little body beneath the puffy parka, enjoys the way his gut thrills when Jongdae leans back into his embrace, settling against his chest as if he belongs there. He does belong there, as far as Minseok's concerned.

And he’s starting to think that perhaps Jongdae feels the same way.

He’d been wrong about Jongdae’s earlier reaction to the High Cantor’s daughter. Fully dressed, there’s been no sign of his earlier fluster, though it’s evident that Jongdae enjoys socializing with her as he does any other amicable folk. Yet it’s Minseok that Jongdae looks for, whose eyes he seeks whether overwhelmed with anxiety or amusement, whose arm he grasps whether he needs it for physical support or not. No matter how many new, interesting people the pair of them meet on their journey, Jongdae still reaches for Minseok first.

Minseok had thought it the clinginess of the abandoned at first, and at first, it might well have been. Many of the dregs are unwilling to be left alone for weeks, months, years after arriving at Locris, some part of their hearts terrified of being left again to an uncertain fate. But Jongdae’s need for proximity had gone from unconscious and desperate to reluctant and ignored to cautious and bashful, as if he’d decided he’d no need for Minseok but then discovered that he  _ desired  _ him instead.

At least, Minseok sure hopes that’s how it is, because he rather desires Jongdae as well.

He may not talk about his feelings, but he certainly has no lack of them. Watching Jongdae with the children today had only made him feel more enamored with the one he’s sworn to take care of. Not because Jongdae is the Spark. Because Jongdae is Jongdae, precious and beautiful.

Over the last months Minseok has witnessed a scared, stubborn boy grow into a tough, determined man, even if that man is currently acting like a dreg who’d earned himself double rations. He’s so gleeful that it makes Minseok’s heart sing along with the wind, happy to witness the sun rising despite the gloomy destruction of the Temple of the Tongues.

Overcome with affection, Minseok leans forward, pressing the scarf over his lower face against the beanie covering Jongdae’s silky hair. It would be a gentle kiss if not for the layers of knit wool between lips and scalp, but as it is Jongdae still turns back to look at him, grin evident behind his scarf. It’s too loud to converse properly but Jongdae wiggles his shoulders, causing Minseok to tighten his arms around Jongdae’s torso. He’s ridiculously sorry when Sehun slows the gustrunner to a stop.

Ridiculous, because he’ll get to hold Jongdae again on the way back. Ridiculous, because he gets to cuddle him close every night. Still, Jongdae has to pat Minseok’s hand before he can make himself let go.

“Most fun you’ve ever had?” Sehun asks, voice raised slightly over the hum of the wind through the pillars.

“Yes,” Minseok answers honestly, giving Jongdae a gentle push upward to assist him in rising from the gustrunner. 

Though he’s content with it and can imagine doing nothing else at this point, his life has been difficult, rarely fun at all. His previous favorite moments have involved sex, food, the beauty of the bleak, the occasional easy fellowship shared between Walkers. Now all of his favorite moments involve Jongdae.

“Oh, absolutely,” Jongdae agrees, reaching to give Minseok a hand up. “ The Ennead are beautiful—thanks for taking us out here and showing them to us.”

Sehun beams. As the three of them stare at the beauty all around them, Minseok's acutely aware that Jongdae has yet to let go of his hand. Minseok fails to let go of Jongdae, either.

He’s far from sure he can anymore.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

The Ennead truly is stunning, a cluster of nine graceful columns carved by nothing but the wind. Jongdae leads Minseok around by the hand, making appreciative noises when Sehun introduces each arced or twisting spire, many with clever or lewd names that Jongdae highly doubts are any kind of official.

“And this one's called the Vortex, but I call it the Whistlebell.”

Jongdae trades an amused look at Minseok. “Why that?”

Sehun looks over his shoulder toward Phrygia, then gives them a sheepish smile.

“Speak nothing of this to my dad, but, well… I sometimes play with the Resonance when I’m gustrunning. I know, I know—I should keep no secrets, especially not like this, but my dad would disapprove of using the Resonance for something so frivolous.”

“We manipulate the Resonance for such frivolous things as making light,” Jongdae states, grinning when he sees Sehun blink.

“Truly? Well. There’s this pattern engraved on the back of the podium in the pulpit, of the oxdown nets stretched across the canyon, and my dad likes to use polishing it as a punishment. So one day I was back there with a rag, whistling to myself out of boredom, when I noticed something. The clumps of oxdown were arranged rather like notes on a stave, so I whistled what that tune would be.”

“And?” Minseok’s brows are lifted high.

“And this breeze sprang up, right inside the naos, blowing in the direction I was facing.”

“Wow, truly?”

“Yeah.” Sehun’s smile is sheepish. “So, um. I obviously was shocked and silently finished my chore, but later, when I was out on ViVi, I, um. Tried it again.”

“Of course you did,” Jongdae laughs. “So that’s how you can move against the wind so well? You make your own counter-breeze?”

Sehun nods. “And since this formation looks like a hollow, inverted bell, I wondered what would happen if the wind passed through it. It’s at the wrong angle for it to happen naturally, but I knelt by the opening at the bottom and whistled, and, well, I’ll just show you.”

Sehun crouches at the base of the formation, lining his mouth up with the opening. He whistles a short, rising series of notes, and air moves. It’s much more forceful than can be accounted for with the guy’s breath, and it sets the Vortex Resonating with a pleasant hum.

“Neat,” Jongdae cheers. “Let me try.”

He switches places with Sehun, takes a deep breath, and whistles. The Vortex hums again, but it’s dull, dampered as if something’s interfering with the Resonance.

“Wow, it’s much louder when you do it.”

“Dae, do that again—it was glowing for a moment.”

Jongdae looks up at Minseok. “Truly?”

He whistles louder, ears again buzzing with that not-quite perfect Resonance. It reminds him a bit of the bells on the longest night, and his mind would likely have gone to dark places if not for the faint sunny glow visible through the cone of ice.

“Seok,” Jongdae breathes, a little short of breath. “Seok, do you think?”

“I know not,” Minseok says. “It’d be a shame to damage this formation and be wrong.”

Jongdae eyes the cone of ice. “I wonder if I can—”

With the deepest breath he can muster, he whistles into the opening. The dulled Resonance suddenly gives way to a pure, clear tone—and Jongdae collapses to the ground, gasping frantically for air that’s not there. He claws at his throat with his mittened hands, trying to unwind his scarf, something,  _ anything _ to let air reach his lungs again.

And then Minseok’s mouth is on his and fingers pinch shut his nose as warm breath is forced from Minseok’s lungs into his own. Just as the time when singing fire had stolen Jongdae’s heat, Minseok repeats the action twice before Jongdae's able to push him away, pulling fresh, cold air into lungs that feel painfully reinflated.

“Clappers,” he pants. “What the bells?”

“Everything has a price, Chenny,” Minseok says grimly. “For the love of Elyxion, please let that price not be your life.”

“Sorry,” Jongdae huffs, gazing up at the Vortex. How frustrating to learn cool tricks only to be punished for using them to their full extent. How is he meant to defeat the shadows and reclaim Dominari if he’s frozen, blind, and suffocated? There must be something he’s missing.

His gaze is drawn to Sehun, who bends to pick something up from the canyon floor. He walks over to where Minseok's still clutching Jongdae’s shoulders, holding out his mittened palm, shielded from the prevailing wind by the curve of his other hand.

“Is this the sort of shiny rock you’ve been looking for?”

Jongdae stares at the faceted yellow stone in Sehun’s hand, twinkling slightly as it catches the rays of the setting sun. Minseok huffs, pressing his forehead against the back of his hand on Jongdae’s shoulder. Smiling, Jongdae lifts his arms to pat his long-suffering Snow Walker reassuringly.

“Yeah, Sehun. That’s exactly the sort of shiny rock we came here to find.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩ⵔ⁾

It’s interesting to watch Sehun whistle up the wind on the way back to Phrygia, modestly enough to not imperil his own breath. That truly seems to be the key to all of these Resonance-generating techniques—use them slightly and sparingly, or suffer the consequences. Minseok tightens his arms around Jongdae simply to reassure himself the Spark is still alive, that his chest is once again rising and falling instead of eerily still as his lips once again turn blue.

Minseok had initially thought Jongdae frozen again, that he’d exhaled all his heat or something, which is why he’d immediately given him his own heat as he had outside Yon. But it’d been the air that Jongdae had needed, and Minseok thanks the Resonance that his emergency efforts had once again revived the Hope of Elyxion.

He’d not thought that “keeping the Spark alive” would be so much panicky work.

The next day, Sejeong leads them to Phrygia’s lampwright, who she suspects would have the proper tools even if she’s never performed the exact task they require. Sejeong’s in a dramatic mood this morning, grumbling about how if they were less gross, she’d have gone with them, and could’ve witnessed the stone’s discovery firsthand instead of receiving the gloating account from her infuriating brother.

“And then you even  _ kissed—” _

“That was no kiss,” Minseok states firmly. “It’s a standard emergency procedure.”

“Your mouth was on his mouth, it totally counts as a kiss.”

“Let her have her fun,” Jongdae mumbles, face pointed at his boots. “She can see it however she likes—I’m just grateful you were there to do it. Again.”

_ “Again?” _

Minseok rolls his eyes below his beanie. “Jongdae’s hobby seems to be trying to die on a regular basis,” he huffs. “He’d be hopeless without constant supervision.”

“Which is why the Resonance gave me to you,” Jongdae smirks. “You’re way too responsible to let anything happen to me.”

“More fool I,” Minseok chuckles.

This smiling exchange results in a bunch of wordless squealing from Sejeong that cuts off as they arrive at the lampwright’s shop.

The lampwright is a sturdy woman with a kind face who turns the Soundbow and the stone over in work-worn hands. She nods in response to their description of what they’d like done.

“Should be able to do that well enough,” she says. “You can come back for it tomorrow—bring a skein of oxdown yarn and we’ll call it even.”

“Speaking of which, how is the knitting guild coming along?”

“The Choi twins are just finishing up the sleeves,” the lampwright smiles. “I’ll have them bring everything over when it’s done, and you can pick them up along with your trinket.”

There’s a round of profuse, bashful thanks and equally bashful deflections before the three of them return to the temple for a last day of rest before heading out into the bleak once again. Sehun has a game of draughts all set up in the sitting room, coaxing them to indulge him in “one more game” again and again until the High Cantor comes in with a tray of food.

“It’s been an absolute pleasure having you here,” the High Cantor says, his children nodding on either side of him as they share a final meal. “You’re welcome any time—please consider our home yours as well.”

Jongdae’s smile across the table from Minseok is a little wobbly, but his thanks is sincere enough alongside Minseok’s own.

That night, Minseok holds Jongdae wordlessly beneath the blankets as they both pretend he’s not crying. Minseok thinks he may finally understand the true difference between the way he’d been raised and the family Jongdae so dearly misses. Minseok had been encouraged, challenged, regarded with respect and even affection. But Jongdae had been  _ loved, _ and seeing the warmth between High Cantor Donghae and his children is likely poking at the bruise of loss still deep and purple on Jongdae’s heart.

Minseok has no first-hand experience with love, but that fails to keep him from knowing it when he sees it. And Minseok’s never before thought himself to truly miss it, not the love of his absent mother or that between romantic partners. He’s never yearned to be in love, never had more than passing crushes on teachers or fellow Walkers that tended to pass once Minseok shared sex with them a time or two. He’s familiar with infatuation. He enjoys fellowship. He knows nothing about love.

But he has no other word for how he’s starting to feel about Jongdae.

And Jongdae clearly craves it, leans into all the care and affection Minseok shows him. He’s brighter now that Minseok’s detachment has crumbled, much more lively now that Minseok’s concern for him is clearly laced with fondness. Minseok’s duty is to keep the Spark alive, but his desire is to keep that glow alive in Jongdae’s heart.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Leaving Phrygia is a lot harder than leaving Dorus or Yon. He’d felt embraced by family then, and he still does—but this time instead of leaving behind an honorary uncle or auntie, he’s leaving behind people who feel a lot like siblings.

“We’ll miss you,” Sejeong says against the shoulder of Jongdae’s parka. “Once you save the world or whatever, I’m going to stow away on a trading cart and come see you.”

Jongdae chuckles. “I’d like that.”

Sehun gives him a squeeze that makes Jongdae whine as his ribs are compressed.

“Try not to die,” he says, smile much warmer than his brusk words.

“Minseok’ll not let me,” Jongdae laughs.

“You could help me out at least a  _ little  _ in that regard,” Minseok huffs over Sejeong’s shoulder. 

“Oh, fine—I’ll try,” Jongdae smiles, loving the curve in Minseok’s eyes as he smiles back.

The High Cantor and his kids have gusted them over to the lychgate, making Tan jump to the top of the structure and growl at them in warning. Minseok coos to her as he helps Jongdae out of the gustrunner, and it’s fun to watch three faces go from alarmed at Tan’s intimidating appearance to amused by Minseok’s baby talk and the tundra cat’s endearing response. She’s soon down off the lychgate and butting her head against Minseok’s chest as he scrubs at her tufted ears with his mittened hands.

“Did we make you wait a long time, fearless girl? Am I getting a lecture for my horrible neglect?”

Tan rumbles at Minseok, swiping at his face with a raspy pink tongue protruding between those huge, wicked-looking fangs.

“Yes, yes, I’m very sorry. Please have mercy on your humble human and take good care of me as always, hmm?”

Another rumble and a head butt that makes Minseok stumble. He laughs in response, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Thank you, Tannie, my tundra treasure.”

“Are they always like this?” Sejeong asks at Jongdae’s elbow, voice low and fond. “How’re you not dead of cuteness yet?”

“It’s touch and go,” Jongdae chuckles as Tan stalks over to snuffle at his hood. 

Evidently satisfied that her human’s charge is in one piece, she turns back to Minseok, play-charging at him as he scoops up a snowball. He yelps and flings it at her to “defend” himself, but she merely bats it out of the air and butts her head against him again, knocking the laughing Snow Walker onto his back in the snow.

“Bells,” Sejeong laughs. “Good luck with your continued survival. I’d never make it.”

“I’ll make it just fine,” Jongdae says, smiling over at the Snow Walker and his companion. “Minseok will make sure of it.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Minseok sees the shades before Jongdae does, and the first thing through his head is that he’s surprised not to have seen any sooner. The second thought is that Jongdae's going to freak out, and even as he thinks that, the man beside him sucks in a breath.

“Clappers and bells,” Jongdae huffs. “Why can they not just leave us alone? How did they even get this far? Did they overrun Dorus? Did they—”

“These are not the shadows,” Minseok interrupts. “These are just… wanderers. They’ve never harmed me. They only follow.”

Jongdae blinks at him. “You—what?”

“These shades are not what snuffed the Tongues,” Minseok says, hand on Jongdae’s biceps. “At least, I think not. I’ve seen them before, though never in these numbers.”

The shades are bunched around the crossroads ahead of them, in threes and fours, on the lychway or beside it. They drift in streaks, several following one moving erratically, short little zigs before a pause, then a zag in another direction.

“They’re lost,” Minseok murmurs. “There’s no one to lead them.”

Jongdae lifts an arm but Minseok forces it down. “Do not harm them. I’m not sure of this, but—I think these are us. Used to be us. People. The parts of us that go to the dance, except stuck down here.”

“Like my family?” Jongdae whispers, eyes wide above his scarf.

Minseok winces. “Possibly,” he admits. “I know not what causes them to separate from the flesh before they’re released by the tongues, but as I said, they only seem lost and sad. Tan usually chases them off.”

Even as he says this, his tundra cat bounds out of the bleak to pounce at the shades, causing them to scatter and flee, leaving the crossroads clear for himself and Jongdae to pass. Jongdae fails to move initially, so Minseok loops his elbow through his charge’s and tugs him forward. Offering no protest, Jongdae plods along at his side, face pensive, gazing after the shades as Tan harries them off.

“We need to hurry,” he mutters eventually. “I’m taking way too long.”

“It’ll take as long—”

“—as the Resonance wills, I know,” Jongdae finishes, tone rough. “But I’ll not let myself be the reason it’s any longer than necessary.”

With that, he picks up his pace, now dragging Minseok along slightly. Minseok merely lengthens his stride to fall in comfortably beside his charge, striding down the lychway toward The Temple of the Gullet at Lydos like death is right on their tails.

Perhaps it is.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾


	5. Grace Note

#  Grace࿄Note 

The Gullet turns out to be a massive, yawning hole in the surface of the glacier, ringed by a wall of cobblestone that keeps wandering wildlife from falling into it. All of Lydos is down inside, accessible by a massive bronze gate straddling the main road providing trade access to the mining colony.

The lychway stops half a day away, at a low dome of cobblestone so thick over a supporting web of bronze that Jongdae feels he’s being crushed beneath the weight of it.

“Seok, I need to get out,” he says, scrambling from the sleeping furs wedged into the narrow space between a dozen silenced. “I’ve no breath. The temple—it’s coming down on us, Seok. They’re screaming.”

He knows he’s babbling, knows he’s not dressed for the chill of the late winter night outside the bronze grate but he scrambles towards it anyway, flinching away from the stones his heart screams are falling down around him.

“Chen, you're unharmed,” Minseok soothes, catching him up and ignoring his breathy shriek. “Be calm—breathe.”

“There’s no way,” Jongdae whimpers. “Everything’s falling.”

He claws at the latch with bare fingers, hissing at the frosted metal barring him from the open air.

“Breathe,” Minseok says again, but Jongdae cannot, there’s no air beneath the shattered stone. 

Minseok catches his hands, presses his oxdown-clad back against the chill of the grate instead, and lilts light into the moonglobe on Jongdae’s staff. It’s a weak glow, blocked by the shadows of the silenced stacked around where the staff lies beside Minseok’s own, but it’s enough to let Jongdae see Minseok’s face, those mesmerizing eyes over a mouth twisted with concern.

“There’s no air,” Jongdae pants, desperate to fill his lungs.

“There is,” Minseok states. Then he whistles up a breeze, soft and fresh against Jongdae’s face.

Jongdae inhales with a ragged gasp. Minseok whistles again, and Jongdae pulls the whistled current into his demanding lungs.

“That’s it,” Minseok soothes between soft, windy whistles. “You’re fine. The walls are solid. There’s plenty of air.”

“Plenty of air,” Jongdae breathes, nose stinging with the force of his inhalations. 

A moment later, his cheeks are burning and his back is freezing, hot shame and cold bronze competing for his rigid body. He slumps forward and Minseok embraces him, rocking him slightly as Jongdae huffs the strangely calming mix of old sweat and lanolin that is the scent of nights spent close on the lychway.

“Sorry, Seok,” Jongdae mumbles against the oxdown of Minseok’s shoulder. “I know not what came over me.”

Minseok shrugs, shoulder lifting briefly beneath Jongdae’s face. “Unease often lurks in the dark,” he says simply. “I trust Tan to detect real danger—she could hear if the stones were shifting or the bronze supports were creaking. She can smell running water beneath bridges of snow and can sense the shadows from far off. She’ll not let us come to harm without warning, and she’s calm tonight.”

Jongdae slows his breathing enough to listen, hearing no sign of the easily-alerted tundra cat. Minseok’s own breathing is deep and even, only a touch more rapid than it is in sleep. Minseok had promised—vowed—to ensure Jongdae’s wellbeing. Jongdae trusts him. And Minseok’s unconcerned.

“We’re safe,” Jongdae says.

“We are.”

“All right.”

Jongdae keeps his eyes closed as Minseok guides him back to the sleeping furs, wraps him tight in his arms beneath the fleece. This way he can tell himself they’re beneath the open sky, that the unmoving bulk at his back is Tan, focus on Minseok’s sturdy arm across his chest and warm face against Jongdae’s neck. 

For the first time, he stretches his arms away from his own sides to wrap around Minseok’s torso, reciprocating the warming embrace the Walker always provides. Minseok hums softly, shifting to settle against Jongdae more comfortably, fitting into his arms like he’s made to be there. More and more, Jongdae wishes he were.

The Clef is meant to endure together with the Stave, is he not? So if Jongdae pulls Minseok a little closer, presses his face against fluffy hair that still smells faintly of juniper, he’s only following the will of the Resonance. 

“So grateful for you,” Jongdae murmurs, lips sliding over silky strands.

“So honored to be here,” Minseok responds, mouth warm against Jongdae’s skin. “Now sleep.”

Feeling more secure than he has since the temple came down, Jongdae does.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Minseok has almost gotten used to waking up with Jongdae in his arms, warm and soft and sleep-pliant. What he’s not at all used to is waking up in Jongdae’s arms, being held close even as his own arms are wrapped around his charge. His face is pressed against Jongdae’s neck and it’d be so easy to kiss that warm skin, to press his morning arousal more firmly against Jongdae’s hip, roll his body in a way calculated to get Jongdae to rut back against him reflexively.

Though all of his awareness seems centered between his legs, Minseok does not do any of this. He lies quietly and listens to Jongdae’s peaceful breathing, enjoys the position of privilege he finds himself in, to be so trusted by the Spark to be so close when he’s vulnerable, to be the one that soothes him, the one that he feels so safe with. It’s truly an honor, and while he supposes it’s only human to enjoy the contact a little too much, only a despicable person would abuse the Great Bell’s trust.

Jongdae tenses as he wakes, like he always does. Minseok expects this time to be slightly worse, because clearly Jongdae was uneasy before Minseok had managed to lull him to sleep. But instead of scrambling to dress and leave this place with its combination of new discomforts and old trauma, Jongdae relaxes, tightening his hold around Minseok before falling still.

“Morning, Seok,” he murmurs. “It’s morning, right?”

“It is.”

“You’re always awake first.”

“I am.”

“You take such good care of me.”

“I try.”

There’s a pause. “You’d be the same to anyone the Resonance set before you.”

“Perhaps,” Minseok agrees. “But I’m rather attached to you in particular.”

“Truly?”

“Of course, Chenny. You’re the person I’m happiest to know. You’d be a treasure even were you not the Great Bell of Elyxion.”

Jongdae’s quiet for the space of several breaths, and Minseok would be concerned he’d said something awkward except that Jongdae makes no effort to move away.

“I treasure you, too, Seok,” Jongdae murmurs, and Minseok’s pretty sure he feels a kiss pressed against his hair.

This does nothing to quell the insistence of his groin that further action is needed. Minseok ignores it for several more heartbeats.

“Shall we to Lydos?” Minseok asks.

Jongdae sighs, then mumbles an agreement. He gives Minseok a last squeeze, then rolls away, lilting his staff alight to dress by. Minseok dresses as well, muscles knowing their tasks even without light to guide them, and soon they’re unlatching the heavy grate and crawling out into the chill blue dawn.

The walk to the edge of the Gullet takes half the day just as Minseok had always predicted, and Tan frolics happily around them while they take turns tossing snowballs for her to bat from the air. The gates are unattended, and it takes a bit of effort to open them since there are springs waiting to pull them shut again behind them.

“Have fun, Tannie,” Minseok coos with a last ruffle of his companion’s tufted ears. “See you in a bit.”

“Hopefully soon,” Jongdae adds, following it up with a rather reluctant, “Resonance willing.”

“Resonance willing,” Minseok agrees, eyes on the massive bronze latticework arch over the Gullet that supports its ring of bells. It curves down toward the rim of the sinkhole, transforming into enclosing tracks on either side that seem to house some sort of cage, evidently meant to raise and lower people and goods in support of the town below. There’s still no sign of anyone around, so Minseok and Jongdae cautiously approach the cage to the right. 

Minseok can read well enough now to identify the words UP and DOWN on either end of a lever inside the cage, and he raises a brow at his charge, not at all liking the idea of trusting their safety to this unknown contraption.

“It must be safe,” Jongdae says, stepping into the cage. “Come on, Seok.”

Still uneasy, Minseok follows, ready to drop his staff and wrap protective arms around Jongdae like that’ll make any difference if anything goes wrong. But when Jongdae moves the lever to the DOWN position, the cage begins to lower smoothly, clanking as a massive chain feeds over a cogged wheel to lower them into the Gullet.

“Neat,” Jongdae breathes.

He’s all smiles as he looks around at the walls of ice, deepening from translucent blue to almost black before giving way to speckled gray stone barely illuminated by the distant barely-risen sun. And then the wall disappears, the cage descending within its track through a massive cavern, walls lined with glowing fungus in a chaotic array of colors.

Minseok can only agree with Jongdae’s reverent  _ wow. _

There are people here, busily pushing carts or hauling sacks, leading children from cords attached to leather body harnesses, keeping the darting little things safely away from the edges of the Gullet that continues down through the center of the cavern. There’s a man there to open the gate of the enclosing track, strong brows furrowing over round eyes as he frowns down at the earthwax tablet in his hand.

“We’ve no pickups scheduled today—wait. You’re Snow Walkers?”

“Walker Minseok is my escort, but I’m no Walker. I’m Jongdae son of Junmyeon, Grand High Cantor of the Supreme Resonance, and I’m here on a quest of utmost urgency and importance.”

The man blinks at them from beneath a close-fitting leather cap. “This about why our Walkers reported they’re unable to deliver any more silenced to Dominari before they tolled off to Locris?”

Jongdae nods.

“Better get it sorted out, then. I’m the Foreman of Lydos, Do Kyungsoo.”

Minseok introduces himself, and when all the formalities of greeting have been dealt with, Foreman Do reaches into an evenweave bin and hands them each a leather cap similar to his own. 

“Put these hardhats on—we delve carefully and support meticulously, but the earth is ever unpredictable. Better safe than sorry, that’s the motto we keep in Lydos.”

Minseok and Jongdae lower their hoods and shed their beanies to replace them with the provided headgear. The temperature down here is almost too warm for their outside gear, leading Minseok to unbutton his parka and gesture for Jongdae to do the same. Then they follow the foreman through a network of tunnels, all illuminated by more glowing fungus. It takes little time for Minseok to realize that the colors are evidently cultivated instead of merely random, the hues diverting down different passageways to either side until they’re following a tunnel entirely lit by green.

“The green warren’s for guests,” the foreman explains. “Tradesman and the like. Room number seven should be open—ah yes. Please set down your packs and make yourself at home. I’ll gather the council and send someone to fetch you to join us in about an hour. Then we can discuss this… unusual situation.”

“Thank you,” Jongdae says with a polite smile.

The foreman nods and walks away, leaving them alone in front of a curtained archway.

Inside is a platform-style bed, a stone washbasin, a small table and two chairs formed of stiff leather supported by bronze, and a leather trunk at the end of the bed. Minseok opens the trunk, depositing their packs and beginning to remove and fold his outerwear.

“He did not even offer us two rooms,” Jongdae muses as he does the same.

“Why would he, when we were clasping each other’s hands?”

Jongdae drops his gaze. “Oh. Right. Of course that makes sense.”

“Would you have preferred two rooms?”

Jongdae shakes his head. “No, of course not. We belong together.”

Minseok ducks his chin to hide his smile as he tucks the last of their things into the trunk. Jongdae may not mean it the way Minseok would prefer, but it’s still truly nice to hear.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

The arrival of their escort to the council meeting is announced by giggles even before a gentle rapping on the stone arch of their doorway. A second later, the curtain twitches, followed by a hiss.

“No, Huchu, you mustn’t just go in there. What if they’re naked?”

“Why would they be naked?”

“Because they’re grown-ups, and grown-ups are gross.”

“Ew!”

“I know! So just wait—”

There are a pair of high-pitched squeaks when Jongdae tugs aside the curtain to reveal two girls, less than a dozen years old, obviously sisters. They share dark curly hair and wide, round eyes, and the way they blink at him makes Jongdae strongly suspect they belong to Foreman Do.

The taller one recovers first. “Greetings, honored guest,” she chirps, elbowing her sister into a matching polite smile. “I’m Meokmul and this is Huchu, and we’re to take you to the council chamber if you’re ready.”

“We’re ready,” Minseok states as he appears at Jongdae’s shoulder, causing the girls to gape again.

“Ah, all right. Good. Um, it’s just this way, if you please.”

The smaller girl—Huchu—stares blatantly at Minseok the whole time they walk, to the point where her sister needs to tug her arm to prevent her from walking into one of the bronze supports that brace the roof of the tunnel periodically. Jongdae hides a smile at the brief hissing lecture about watching where one is going instead of being so careless (not to mention  _ rude). _

The girls lead them through the green tunnels, pointing out meeting rooms and dining halls, all kept within an easily navigable subsection of what must be a huge underground network. Then the tunnels begin to branch out and other hues join the green fungus on the walls and ceiling.

“What do the colors mean?”

“Oh, there are lots of complicated codes, but you needn’t worry about any of that—green always means guests, so if you follow that color, you’ll always either end up in the main cavern or in the guest warren. And anyone you meet will happily help you find the green if you’ve lost it completely.”

They stop in front of an archway ringed in fungus that glows yellow splotched with clumps that glow a soft red, and the girls beckon them through. “Perhaps we’ll see you later,” Meokmul says hopefully as Huchu waves bashfully beside her.

The smile drops from Jongdae’s face when he turns to face the council, a half-circle of stern-looking people headed by a man wearing a less-ornate version of the Soundbow around Jongdae’s own throat. Foreman Do is to his right, face set with concern. But Minseok steps up close, just behind Jongdae to one side, shoulder pressed against shoulder, and Jongdae takes a steadying breath.

“Greetings, esteemed council members,” he starts, modeling his speech after the deference the girls had showed them earlier. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I’m Kim Jongdae, and I bear dark tidings of Dominari, but also a hope for a brighter future.”

He can feel Minseok’s strong, sturdy form supporting him as always, giving him courage to tell his unhappy tale to these dour-looking people. He concludes with a description of the type of stone he’s looking for, along with suggestions of where it may be based on the locations of the three he’s already collected.

Foreman Do lifts one heavy brow. “Young man, this is a mining town. Stones are everywhere.”

Jongdae nods, lips pressed together. “I’m prepared to search all of Lydos, but any suggestions of starting places would be welcome.”

“I cannot say I agree with this interpretation of the Spark prophecy,” the High Cantor sniffs, “but I’ll not interfere except to forbid destruction of the temple or any holy artifacts in this ridiculous search. It’ll be as the Resonance wills whether I disapprove of aggression towards these shadow creatures or not, but I’ll not personally aid in preparations for violence when that is the plague our ancestors were fleeing when they sought out this refuge.”

Bowing his head, Jongdae nods again. “I’m not eager to fight, but I cannot stand by and allow Elyxion to be snuffed of life just as was Dominari,” he says. “I’ll only search the Temple of the Gullet with the utmost care and reverence, and I’ll not permanently alter anything without your express permission.”

“Digging up rocks falls under the foreman’s purview,” says a pinch-faced woman. “I do not see why the rest of us need be involved. I’ve wasted enough of the day on this—I move to remand further oversight to the foreman and return to our usual business.”

The motion carries almost immediately, and the chamber begins to empty, leaving them in the sole company of Foreman Do. His lips form a heart shape as he flashes them a cheeky smile.

“Well, then, gentle sirs,” he smirks, “as it’s getting on supper time, let’s find something to fill our bellies. Then we can engineer a way to dig up a shiny rock.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Minseok decides he likes this sturdy little foreman, with his strong brows and no-nonsense attitude.

“They feel too safe, the lot of them,” he says of the dismissive council members. “They prefer elaborate headwear to the hardhats, and they feel like nothing can get to them down here. They’ve forgotten how it is to feel the cold or fear the wild, to scrape for food or risk death for the prosperity of their families.”

He regards them across the dining table with wide, serious eyes. “We miners respect what the merchants do not. Not a one of us has never lost a loved one to the stone that keeps us safe and warm, lets us harvest its bounty to trade for food and clothing. Lydos only exists because of the mine—we produce nothing to directly sustain ourselves. Earthwax and ore, sand and stone are the gifts of the Gullet, sent off to Yon to be smelted into metal or melted into glass, sent to the rest of Elyxion to build and burn. Even if we’re safe from the shadows down here in our earth-warmed warrens, we’d starve without outside support.”

Jongdae nods. “My father always taught that all of Elyxion needed every other part—that’s why the temples were named for parts of the body. The tongue dies without the gullet, blood, heart, hide, and so on. A body is only healthy when all parts work in harmony.”

“Exactly. As much as I scoff at them, I’ve no head for business, and most miners are stronger with their hands than their heads. We need the merchants to transform our harvest into food and clothing, and they’d have naught to trade without our labors.”

“We’ve all our role to play,” Minseok agrees. “And all are equal by the time they come in to our care.”

“Indeed. Though you’ll forgive me if I hope me and mine shall not enter that care for as long as possible.”

Jongdae gives the foreman a soft smile. “Your daughters are indeed treasures worth hoarding,” he agrees. “They remind me of myself and my sister—always bickering, but no less loving for all that.”

“They’re my disquiet and my delight,” Foreman Do smiles a bit bashfully. “I do hope they comported themselves well as your guides.”

“Perfectly,” Minseok assures him, enjoying how the man’s features relax in response.

“Excellent. I’d love to assist you in person, but as I’m needed in the mines, Meokmul and Huchu must accompany you in my stead. Let’s make a list of places you’d like to search—I’ll teach you the miner’s melody so you can more easily clear rubble from long-unused tunnels that’ve existed since the Gullet was first probed for gifts. Lydos is fairly young compared to some of Elyxion’s other settlements, but that’s the closest I can get you to a place the ancestors might’ve hidden a prize.”

The foreman’s face takes on a mischievous twist. “And my girls are close with the High Cantor’s daughter, so I’m sure the three of them can show you all there is to know about the temple and what’s within.”

Jongdae laughs. “Nobody better to uncover secrets than curious children,” he grins. “When we were young, my sister and I got our bells tuned but good once for uncovering the entrance to an old transport tunnel beneath the Temple of the Tongues. It lead all the way to the coast, and our parents were past panic and well into pure rage by the time they found us.”

Foreman Do’s laugh is wry. “Resonance forfend—we’ve no coastline but the edge of the Gullet, and there’s no surviving if it swallows a body outside the lift cages.”

Jongdae’s wince mirrors Minseok’s own. “Yes. Resonance forfend.”

“So I’ll send the girls to you in the morning—they’ll bring you back here for breakfast, then guide you wherever you like. They’ve keys to the lift, and to the areas of the mine that’re considered too dangerous to dig in anymore.” The foreman’s eyes narrow. “Make sure to wear your hardhats.” 

They both nod obediently.

“If you need anything, the girls either know how to get it or who to ask.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Jongdae assures him. “Please add us not to your long list of concerns.”

“Everything in the mines is my concern,” Foreman Do says, lips quirking into half a smile. “Now listen close—I expect the High Cantor’s boy to learn a melody quickly. Then it’s off to bed—we’ve all work to do on the morrow.” 

Minseok smiles when Jongdae learns the melody after a single demonstration, earning a trio of rapid blinks from the foreman’s round eyes.

“Well trained, indeed,” he chuckles. “As expected from the purported Hope of Elyxion. Our High Cantor is in for a disappointment, I’m afraid.”

“I blame him not for disbelief,” Jongdae says. “Minseok can tell you that I argued with the prophecy for a good month before agreeing to undertake this quest. It still seems a bit ridiculous—collect a bunch of rocks and sing to them?” He shares a wry smile with the foreman. “I still have no real knowledge of how that’s meant to help, but the shadows are unlikely to wait for me to figure it out. I’ll gather the stones and hope it comes to me along the way.”

“If it’s meant, it’s meant,” the foreman says with a nod. “An instrument needn’t know the song itself to be played well. If you’re truly our Spark, the Resonance will reveal your path.”

Minseok only smiles when Jongdae shoots him a suspicious look.

“This is a conspiracy,” Jongdae complains. “You’ve all agreed to tell me to just keep going and not worry about what exactly is meant to happen, that somehow, I’m just going to succeed.”

“The Resonance is not without grace,” Foreman Do states. “The prophecy would surely not set someone on this path who would only fail.”

“I certainly hope not,” Jongdae grumbles, causing Minseok and Foreman Do to trade smiles over his slumped shoulders.

“Come, let’s get some rest,” Minseok coaxes, taking Jongdae’s hand.

As he’d hoped, Jongdae twines their fingers together with a smile. Minseok’s glad that Jongdae holds up the other end of the foreman’s friendly conversation, because Minseok’s entirely distracted by the way Jongdae’s thumb keeps rubbing over the back of his hand.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

After the dramatics he’d exhibited last night, Jongdae did not expect himself to be so eager to sleep beneath even more stone. But their room is spacious enough not to make him feel closed in, the glowing fungus on the high ceiling spaced out in an echo of a starry sky.

He falls asleep beneath it easily enough, and opens his eyes to the same level of soft green light. It’s surreal enough that he feels as though no time has passed at all, except that he feels refreshed and his bladder is full.

Minseok, as usual, is awake already, and he must’ve already taken care of morning necessities. He only smiles as Jongdae leaves the bed for the relief of the garderobe down the hall, returning to climb back into the bed that feels like a cloud after weeks of sealskins spread over frozen ground.

“Beautiful,” Minseok comments as they lay side by side beneath the puffy duvet, eyes on the soft green glow above them. 

“So are you,” Jongdae blurts.

Minseok turns his head to regard Jongdae with those wide dark eyes.

Face hot, Jongdae gazes back, smile cautious. He’d not meant to say it out loud, but it’s true and he’s not going to take it back. Minseok takes everything in stride, surely he’ll simply nod and move on.

Except he’s not nodding. He’s still staring at Jongdae, eyes sweeping over Jongdae’s face like Kyungsoo’s stylus had moved across his tablet. 

“Do you truly think so?” Minseok asks, voice near a whisper.

Jongdae nods.

“Hmm. Well. Your smile is brighter than any sunrise, and far more beautiful.”

Yesterday morning, Jongdae had thought his face might freeze off. Now he’s worried his cheeks will melt away.

“Um. Thanks.”

Minseok’s still looking at him. Slowly, he rolls up onto his side, never breaking his gaze. “Dae,” he says, and Jongdae’s spine tingles at the nickname. “Snow Walkers have no friends, not truly. We’ve fellows, but that’s not exactly the same, I suspect. I value them, enjoy their company, but I’m not as… attached. We share warmth, supplies, even sex, but I feel exactly the same about any one of them as I do about any other.”

He reaches out to brush Jongdae’s hair away from his face. His touch feels molten against Jongdae’s skin.

“So forgive me for having to ask, but, Dae—are we… friends?”

“Sure,” Jongdae breathes.

“Are we… closer than friends?”

Jongdae nods.

“Like family? I remember nothing of what that’s like. Is that what this is? What we are?”

“If you wish.”

“What do you wish?”

Minseok’s face is very, very close. All Jongdae can see are big feline eyes. Edible, slightly-chapped lips.

But before Jongdae can sort through his feelings and decide on an answer, there’s another light rapping at the curtain-filled archway of their room. “Are you esteemed misters naked in there? Would you like some sausages?”

“Huchu, you mustn’t just ask them if they’re naked. You should just ask if they’re ready for breakfast.”

“We’ll be ready in just a moment,” Jongdae calls out as Minseok smothers a laugh against his shoulder. 

Is this what it’s like being a parent? Being both happy to see the adorable girls again but a bit annoyed they’d not showed up a little later?

Jongdae indulges in one last sigh against Minseok’s shoulder before releasing that perfect body to stretch and dress. He does need to find the stone quickly, so it’s just as well he’d not said anything that might’ve elicited any awkwardness… or inspired them to waste the day in bed.

There’s fungus served along with the breakfast sausages, pale and non-luminous but tasting surprisingly pleasant alongside the venison. The company is pleasant, too, the girls eating with them in the green-lit dining hall, chattering about their school friends and their lessons and somehow still managing to put away about twice as many sausages as either adult.

“And what about the High Cantor’s daughter?” Jongdae asks during a pause, looking for a segue into asking to search the temple.

“Nayeon? She’s the best singer in school. Well, the best girl, anyway—I think Taeil is better. He’ll probably be the Tenor when he grows up. Nayeon has a huge crush on him—she says they’ll get married.”

The girls continue to chatter about kids from school as they make their way to the temple, but it’s quickly evident that it’s been carved from the rock relatively recently.

“Girls, do you know where the old temple was?” Jongdae asks, thinking of the one in Phrygia. “Perhaps it’s used for something else now?”

They shake their heads in eerie unison.

“The old temple collapsed,” Huchu says. “The bells broke it.”

Jongdae furrows a brow, and Meokmul rolls her eyes.

“It’s not truly broken. The bells just… vibrated it too much? It was unsafe to keep using it, so they put the bells up in the arch over the Gullet where we can all hear them still without them shaking the stone. And then they built a new temple, and just as they finished, the old one crumbled. It was all very Resonant—nobody got hurt or anything.”

Jongdae still finds himself swallowing bile. Was it Resonant for his entire life to be crushed?

Minseok’s arm is around his waist. “Well. Will you perhaps show us where the old temple was? Is it safe to visit?” 

The calm, downy voice gives Jongdae something to ground his thoughts against, just as Minseok’s sturdy body supports Jongdae’s frame. He slings an arm around Minseok’s shoulders, once again drawing strength from this man that has so much of it.

“It’s safe—we just need to wear our hats.”

“We  _ always _ need to wear our hats,” Meokmul corrects, narrowing suspicious eyes at her sister.

“My hat makes my hair itch,” Huchu complains.

Meokmul claps the hardened leather over her sister’s head anyway, giving a lecture about how  _ actually _ hair has no nerves so  _ actually _ it can never itch.

Jongdae’s not itching but he certainly has nerves as they follow their pair of guides. Their arms are still around each other as they enter the cage that Foreman Do had called a  _ lift, _ an ironic name considering they’ll again be lowered into the Gullet.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Minseok suppresses a wry smile as he descends to the lower levels of Lydos with his charge. He’d meant to give Jongdae a little reassurance, but it’s Minseok drawing comfort from their contact as the cage clinks downward.

“You needn’t fret,” Huchu says, looking up at him with her father’s big round eyes. “Papa checks the lifts every day to make sure they’re safe.”

“Yeah, there’s not been a lift accident since he’s been the Foreman,” Meokmul adds. “Papa’s very responsible.”

“I believe it,” Minseok says, trying to relax his stance. Even if the lift were to fail, a rigid body is unable to react as quickly, and Minseok absolutely knows better than to let himself get so stiff.

Jongdae’s stiff enough for them both, anyway, almost as mechanical as the lift as he marches toward the ruins of the old temple.

“I’m right beside you,” Minseok murmurs. “You’re all right.”

“I know,” Jongdae sighs, breaking their half embrace to take his hand instead. “But my family’s not, and I hate thinking about it—about how they must’ve suffered.” 

There’s nothing Minseok can say that’ll make the past less painful, so he simply squeezes Jongdae’s hand. Jongdae squeezes back, takes a deep breath, then another.

“This is important,” Jongdae tells himself. “Enduring this lets you find the stone, which lets you relight the Tongues and send them to the dance.”

Then he marches toward the ruins, determination in every stride. Minseok walks with him, forever in awe of the resilience of the Spark he has the honor to accompany.

It would’ve been a nice reward of that resilience for the old temple to actually contain the stone, but the morning’s search turns up no likely possibilities. The former Temple of the Gullet had been an incredibly plain structure, evidently, as in Phrygia, one of the first carved from the surrounding stone. It appeared to have been done rather hastily, which perhaps explains its eventual collapse.

Their guides drag them away (almost literally, in Jongdae’s case) for lunch, over which Minseok tries to coax future search plans out of a still-unsettled Jongdae.

“Where else is very old?” he asks the girls. “Somewhere that the ancestors might’ve been?”

“We can check the old mining branches,” Meokmul shrugs. “But they’re not used anymore because they’re too unstable to dig safely.”

“We’ll not be digging, only looking, right, Dae?” Minseok flicks a glance at the still blankly-chewing man. “Or is there anywhere old but stable we can check first?”

The girls make the cutest thinking faces, holding their tiny chins like a pair of matching statuettes.

“Well… perhaps the hot caves?”

When Jongdae actually lifts his face from his bowl to look at the girls, Minseok decides it’s worth pursuing. “What’re the hot caves?”

“They’re where they first found the glowing fungus,” Meokmul explains. “It all used to be green at first, but then they got different colors and made it brighter. But that’s why the fungus in the guest warren is green—to remind us that we’re all guests here, actually, and to be grateful for the Gifts of the Gullet.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

There’s no gift Jongdae has ever or will ever receive that he’ll be more grateful for than having Minseok at his side. He feels more than a little guilty for letting Minseok plow ahead, finding places—hot, damp places—to search among dim fungus and metallic-scented puddles for the stone that’s evidently meant to be his.

“The pools have different miners in them,” Huchu informs them. “That’s why the fungus grows different colors.”

“She means  _ minerals,” _ Meokmul quickly adds in response to Minseok’s alarm. “Like from the different metals. They absorb them and glow different depending on which ones they get. But once they get to a certain size, then they just stay that color, so we transfer them to the walls.”

“Interesting,” Minseok says, and the girls beam like the junior chorus used to after Jongdae praised their efforts.

They continue their educational tour, pointing out this and that in a way that makes Jongdae sure that they’d been on the receiving end of such education more than once in the past. As a schoolboy, Jongdae had memorized all the products that can be made from a single walrus. Evidently, the children of Lydos memorize which minerals make their fungus glow different colors.

The fact that Jongdae’s stuck in memories when he trips fails to improve his reaction. When his knees sting and his hands land in warm wetness, Jongdae shrieks.

Minseok’s there, like Minseok’s always there, hauling him up and checking him for injuries. 

“Where are you hurt, Dae?”

Jongdae shakes his head as he dries his hands on his trousers. “Just my heart.”

Minseok blinks at him, then wraps strong arms around him and pulls him close. “This has been hard for you all day,” he murmurs, breath puffing over Jongdae’s ear. “You’ve endured so much. Perhaps it’s time to rest. I’ll keep searching—there’s no need for you to suffer.”

This is more than the duties of an escort. Jongdae’s thoughts may be turbulent, but his body is fine, he knows he’s not in danger, that the ceilings here are stable. He’s not truly in need of Minseok’s guidance or protection, but Minseok’s giving him comfort anyway. More and more, Minseok’s shifted in his treatment of Jongdae, evidently unsure exactly what their relationship is or is meant to be, but deepening it nonetheless.

Minseok’s not merely looking after Jongdae any more. He sorts Jongdae’s favorites from his own plate onto Jongdae’s. He twines around him in the night even when they’re already plenty warm beneath lofted blankets. He takes Jongdae’s hand without using it to pull him more quickly along the lychway, holds it even within the settlement, even when there’s no danger of becoming separated or needing reassurance.

Minseok’s always caring for Jongdae. Like he cares  _ about _ Jongdae. Closer than friends, but not exactly like family. Minseok may have no word for it, but Jongdae does:  _ courting. _ Minseok is courting him, and it’s such a startlingly solid realization that Jongdae’s next shaky breath is instead a sharp gasp.

“What’s the matter?” Minseok asks, pulling away to look him over again, allowing Jongdae to see the pair of concerned children hovering nearby. 

“Nothing,” Jongdae says, giving the girls a smile. “I’m fine—I just was surprised by the warm water. It felt truly strange after always tripping in ice and snow.”

Minseok’s still eyeing him uncertainly but evidently Jongdae’d been bright enough to convince Meokmul and Huchu that he’s all right, at least. Meokmul launches into a lecture about depth and temperature, often interrupted by her sister to “correct” some point that may or may not actually need it, sparking a round of bickering before the lecture continues. 

Jongdae and Minseok follow along behind. Jongdae shifts Minseok’s grasp of his hand, interlacing their fingers into a proper clasp, the kind that’s only possible without thick mittens or bulky gloves. Bare palm to bare palm, Jongdae’s still slightly damp, Minseok’s warm and solid. Jongdae looks down at their hands, then up to smile reassuringly at Minseok.

If there’s courting to be done, Jongdae would rather like to be the one doing it.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Jongdae sticks closer than usual after his distress in the hot caves. He’s always right up against Minseok, fingers laced, as they look around the damp, sweat-inducing caves for any sign of a stone rather than merely fungus and more fungus. 

His free hand—the one not twining with Minseok’s—tends to find its way to Minseok’s chest or biceps, his waist, his shoulder. And since they’re wearing only their thin, indoor clothing, it’s much more distracting than it might’ve been had it happened when Minseok were clad in his usual durable hide and thick wool.

It continues during supper, Jongdae sitting close enough on the bench beside Minseok that he may as well be in Minseok’s lap. In fact, it’s easier to wrap his left arm around Jongdae’s waist and eat solely with his right hand—a task made easier by the fact that Jongdae decides to hand-feed Minseok choice bites of sweetvetch despite Minseok’s attempts to encourage his charge to eat his own supper.

And then beneath the aurora-green glow of the fungus on the ceiling of their room, Jongdae proceeds to gaze at Minseok across the pillows, arms wrapped securely around him. He keeps parting his lips, then licking them, as if he’s perhaps going to say something, perhaps considering using those lips for something else.

Minseok refuses to allow himself to entertain any such ideas.

Jongdae’s had a hard day, Jongdae trusts Minseok to look after him, Jongdae does not need some horny Walker to hit on him, take advantage of his vulnerability, gross him out, drive him away. But Minseok’s not willing to roll over and turn his back to Jongdae, so he rolls Jongdae over instead, ignoring the whining and pinning Jongdae’s back to his chest with an insistent arm.

“Sleep,” he tells his charge. “You’ll feel more yourself in the morning.”

And Jongdae does seem steadier in the morning, smile readier even though they plan to explore the less-stable areas of the old mines. He still seems determined to maintain physical contact with Minseok the entire time, with both hands if he can possibly manage, which Minseok’s not sure what to make of. 

When the lift stops only a little way below the main cavern, Meokmul imperiously commands them all to make sure their hard hats are on properly, earning herself a stuck-out tongue from her sister behind her back. Minseok conceals a smile, thinking of Sejeong and Sehun. Siblings are so intriguing to him, a concept entirely foreign to a former dreg.

He’d been raised in a group with perhaps three dozen other kids to start with, numbers dwindling as they’d succumbed to cold or hazards one by one over the years until the remaining handful of them had become Walkers. They’d looked out for each other when possible, had understood that competition between them was detrimental to all of them, had trained close and slept closer. But it’d not felt like siblings seem to be. They were familiar with each other, but, as he’d told Jongdae, not truly  _ attached. _

It’d been quickly understood that most of them would fail to survive to adulthood. Each frozen body hauled in from the bleak by the older trainees had been viewed with disappointment, pity, perhaps a little sorrow, but not with a true sense of personal loss. Nobody cried over the body or trudged vacantly for days as Jongdae had after his own tragedy. 

Minseok has seen grief countless times, but he’s never truly felt more than the ghost of it himself. He’d missed High Cantor Changmin after he passed, but in a misty sort of way, soft and indistinct. He’d been affected more by the grief of the mother who’d given him the shawl than he’d ever been over the loss of one of his fellows. He’s not even able to remember most of their names.

So it’s with a warm fascination that he watches the pair of sisters interact, the way they’re so in tune with each other, the way they gleefully antagonize each other but still reach automatically to steady each other over the dusty, uneven floor of the dimly-lit old mine. It reminds him of watching the litter of tundra cats he’d selected his Tan from, how they’d growl and tussle with one another but immediately form up shoulder to shoulder when a winter wolf puppy bounded over, immediate allies against anything outside of each other.

Jongdae’s not treating Minseok like that, though, and Minseok feels something much sharper than loyalty, hotter than affection for the man whose arm is entwined with his own. It’s more than attraction, more than attachment, more than he’s ever felt for anyone. It scares him more than a little, to know that his role is to help Jongdae succeed, and that success will both ensure Elyxion’s survival and steal Jongdae from him.

The Spark’s purpose is to shine for the living, and a Walker’s duty is to serve the dead.

Jongdae’s low whistle pulls Minseok’s attention to the mural that’s caught Jongdae’s eye, a wall stretching deep into the dark. It’s set with various bits of stone, most shades of gray, brown, or black but some streaks of bluish or greenish shades, a sort of swirling mosaic that seems to run the length of the main gallery. There are more glowing yellow fungus lined up along it than there are scattered over the rest of the ceiling, making it not only the straightest path but the brightest.

“There’s one in every mine,” Meokmul informs them. “The miners save bits of the waste rock and work together to make something pretty, since it’s kinda boring down here for them all the time.”

“And this is the oldest?” Jongdae asks, releasing Minseok’s arm to spread both hands wide, hovering them over the spirals and sweeps of rows of little rocks.

“Yep. This is the first gallery the ancestors mined.”

“Why did they stop?” Minseok asks.

“It gets dangerous to mine in one place too much. The ceiling needs support, and the rock runs in veins, so emptying a vein might make things collapse above it.”

“I see.”

He gets more of an idea the deeper they go, when fallen chunks of stone occasionally obstruct their path. The girls sing the melody that Foreman Do had taught Jongdae, enabling them to lift surprisingly large stones out of the way before huffing and puffing with the effort.

Jongdae and Minseok of course join in to give them a hand, and Minseok understands their reaction when fatigue immediately bites at his muscles. But Jongdae takes to singing out the melody every so often, looking at the rock around himself whenever he does so.

“Why tire yourself when there’s nothing to lift?” Minseok finally asks him when he’s once again in the position of tugging Jongdae along so he can keep up with their moderate stroll.

“Because, all the other stones we found when I sung. I figure it’s easier than trying just to look for a faceted stone among all these others.”

“Makes sense.” Minseok huffs when Jongdae’s next attempt at finding the stone makes his feet move even slower. “I’m going to end up carrying you out of here, I’d guess.”

“We’re not on a lychway, so yes. In fact, just carry me now.”

Minseok laughs when Jongdae tries to climb on his back, twisting away as Jongdae whines.

“Girls, come help me!” Jongdae calls. “If we catch him, he’ll give us reindeer-back rides.”

“Not all at once,” Minseok laughs, squirming away from Jongdae’s grabby arms. “I’m not  _ that _ strong.”

“Just sing the melody and carry us,” Huchu tells him, clinging to one arm. “My legs are even shorter than Papa’s.”

Somehow Minseok ends up with one child on his back and the other in his arms, together only just over the weight of his usual pack. Jongdae pouts and whines at being “betrayed” and excluded from being carried himself, but this only makes the mischievous sisters giggle at his faux distress.

Minseok’s smiling, too, much happier that Jongdae’s pretending to be upset than actually behaving as if he’s uneasy down here below the rock. They’re all still smiling even when they encounter another rockfall blocking the way, the girls hopping off of Minseok to help sing themselves strong and haul the displaced rock to one side. It takes several renewals of the fatigue-inducing melody, but eventually they clear a path wide enough to squeeze through.

“Look!” Huchu calls as Jongdae sings strength into his muscles one last time. “Is that a green fungus? But the mines are meant to only have yellow.”

But the greenish glow on the wall up ahead dies away with Jongdae’s voice, making Minseok shake his head as Jongdae hefts the last of the boulders out of their way.

“Not a fungus—a stone.”

“We found it!” Meokmul squeals, darting through the cleared passage toward that section of the ongoing mural. 

Her sister follows close at her heels, and Jongdae gives Minseok a grin brighter than any fungus before trailing after the girls. And only because Minseok’s unable to stop staring at his charge does he notice the dust that falls from the ceiling to Jongdae’s shoulders. It warns him just in time to take three rapid steps and  _ shove _ Jongdae hard, seeing him stagger clear just before dust and debris obscure his vision.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

_ “Minseok!” _

Jongdae’s mouth tastes like metal as he drops to his knees beside the pile of rubble where Minseok had just been standing. Where  _ Jongdae _ had just been standing, before Minseok had shoved him out of the way.

“Minseok…” 

His voice breaks on a wheeze, black spots obscuring his vision along with his tears. Dust clogs his lungs instead of air, he’s not breathing—

“Dae.”

The word is faint but definitely there which means his Seok is still alive and Jongdae’s suddenly able to pull enough air into his lungs to let the miner’s melody flow through his lips. He’s clawing at the rock in front of him until four small hands grab his wrists.

“Start at the top,” Huchu says. “If you pull from the bottom, the rocks at the top will fall.”

Right. Of course. Jongdae’s an idiot. He stands up, reaching as high as he can and grabbing at the stone with sweaty hands. There are hands on his back and Meokmul sings out behind him, then Huchu’s scrambling up onto his shoulders to pull at the rock along with him.

Jongdae sings strength into his arms again and again, higher voices sounding above and below him, the three of them clawing the rock away from the man who keeps saving Jongdae’s life. 

They may have worked for seconds or hours but eventually the pile is low enough that both girls are beside him, Jongdae’s melody forcing his quivering limbs to cooperate long enough to heave the last angled slab of rock away from the occasionally-coughing figure tucked beneath it.

Still coughing, Minseok uncurls upright-ish to lean against the boulder that’d sheltered him, hard hat scuffed and dusty but the skull beneath evidently intact. “Dae,” he chokes out, eyes watering but lips curved into most of a smile. “So good to see you’re all right.”

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Jongdae simply gapes at Minseok for the space of several heartbeats.

“You stupidly selfless man,” he snarls, cheeks streaked with tears. He grabs hold of Minseok’s arms and hauls him upright, then practically shakes him. “How could you do that to me? How could you put me through that  _ again?” _

Minseok coughs enough dust from his lungs to speak. “You’re the Spark. How could I not?”

Jongdae rolls his eyes, pulls Minseok close, and kisses him.

Shocked, it takes a minute for Minseok to remember to kiss back. Is this a dream? Is he actually dying? But as soon as Minseok’s lips begin to move in response, Jongdae pulls away.

“Stupid,” he coughs. “Absolutely  _ stupid.” _ Then his eyes roll back until the whites are all that’s visible, and he crumples bonelessly towards the floor.

Minseok steps forward and catches him, frowning down at the unconscious man in his arms. He looks at the pair of dusty, frozen faces staring at them both, offering a wry smile made possible by Jongdae’s continued breathing.

“Well. I’ve shared more than a few kisses before, but that’s the first time anyone’s reacted like  _ that.” _

Huchu giggles. “That was super scary. Perhaps I’ll try kissing a girl instead when I’m grown up.”

“It was super scary,” Meokmul agrees. “That’s why we’re not to use the melody so much.” Her frown melts. “Well. I guess it’s worth fainting to save someone.”

“I do appreciate being saved,” Minseok nods. “Thank you for your help.”

“Of course we helped—Papa’d be so mad if someone died in his mines. He’s super proud of his “Days Without Incident” sign, and he’d yell and yell if he had to reset it.”

“I think this still counts as an incident,” Meokmul says as Minseok hefts Jongdae more comfortably into his arms and heads toward the lift.

“It’s not an incident—nobody even bleeded.”

“Bled.”

“Bleeded.”

“Bled. It’s not ‘readed’ or ‘leaded.’”

“But it’s ‘needed’ and ‘heeded,’ and those are spelled more the same.”

Minseok smiles as the lift carries them up toward the living levels, where things like baths and laundry are available. He’s beyond happy to listen to childish bickering rather than screams or sobs, happy to maintain a relieved silence instead of a horrified one.

Happy to be stupid and selfless instead of a failure.

Jongdae rouses when Minseok sets him in the bathing pool, whining at the temperature of the tepid water as Minseok efficiently scrubs them both free of the dust of their ordeal. He makes Jongdae wash himself below the waist while Minseok washes his hair, rinsing it carefully so as not to get any soap in Jongdae’s eyes.

Jongdae’s out again as soon as he’s dried off and dressed, leaving Minseok to carry him to their bed and tuck him beneath the fluffy covers. Even unconscious, Jongdae twines against Minseok, restless until their arms are tight around each other. Minseok lies there in the gentle green glow, concentrating on how he’s able to feel the other breathe, able to count the other’s continuing heartbeats.

The Spark is safe. Jongdae is safe. And Minseok’s still alive to keep him that way.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

When Jongdae wakes up, the first thing he does is reach for Minseok. Except Minseok’s right there, holding him close, eyes blinking open in response to Jongdae’s sudden flail.

“You’re all right,” he sighs, lifting a hand to cup Minseok’s cheek, horror rising as he remembers why he’s so concerned and then receding as he takes in the living man before him.

“As are you,” Minseok murmurs, turning his face into Jongdae’s hand, eyes drifting closed above a satisfied smile.

“I’m so mad at you,” Jongdae huffs.

Minseok’s smile only widens, making his cheek bunch against Jongdae’s palm. “I know.”

Jongdae’s scowl becomes a frown as his stomach gurgles painfully. “So hungry.”

“You passed out again after our bath and slept for who knows how long. Of course you’re hungry.”

His stomach clenches around nothing again and Jongdae throws back the blanket with a huff. “Fine—let’s go eat, then I’m yelling at you for at least a solid hour. With proper swearing, since no children will be around.”

“Of course,” Minseok agrees, pulling on his own clothing.

“And then I’m going to kiss you again.”

Minseok freezes for a moment, then resumes dressing with studied nonchalance. “All right.”

Jongdae frowns. “Just ‘all right?’”

“I was unsure if you’d remember that,” Minseok says, giving Jongdae a furtive look.

“I remember ruining it, just as it was getting good,” Jongdae says. “That was no dream, was it? That you kissed me back?”

Minseok shakes his head, eyes on the pair of guest slippers he’s pulling on over his socks.

“So we can try it again?” Jongdae asks, watching Minseok closely for any signs of reluctance.

But Minseok smiles at the floor before lifting bashful eyes to meet his gaze. “Yeah, we can try it again.”

He shuffles closer, but Jongdae puts a hand on his chest to keep him at a distance. “After the yelling,” he reminds him.

Minseok’s shoulders droop, but then he’s lifting a brow above a wry smile. “Perhaps you can yell at me while we eat,” he suggests. “Save a little time.”

“Good idea,” Jongdae says, then attempts to drag Minseok toward the dining hall. 

Every laugh that flows out of Minseok’s lungs is a symphony, powered by air he can inhale because he’s not flattened beneath the stone that should’ve crushed Jongdae’s body but, thank the Resonance, failed to crush Jongdae’s heart.

⁽ⵔ❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Jongdae’s still rather weak—unsurprising, given the tale the girls related and the melodies Minseok had heard—so Minseok ends up draping Jongdae’s arm across his shoulders, wrapping an arm around that narrow waist, and helping him navigate the halls to the dining area and back. This makes Minseok’s badly-bruised back, shoulders, and forearms scream in protest, but Minseok can only wear a smile. 

They eat their fill of mutton and sweetvetch stew, Jongdae’s lectures delivered around huge mouthfuls as Minseok suppresses laughter and pretends repentance. Then Minseok helps Jongdae back to their room, startling the trio hovering outside their doorway.

“Ah, good to see you up and around,” Foreman Do says, his daughters echoing the sentiment. “You’ll be needing to take it easy for a few days before you set off again, but the girls had me fetch this down from the mosaic for you.”

He holds out a faceted green stone. Jongdae accepts it with reverence, turning it over in his hands. He sings the melody softly, and sure enough the stone gives off a gentle glow in response.

“Thank you for retrieving it for me. I’m sorry to have taken time from your busy schedule.”

The foreman waves off Jongdae’s words. “Digging rocks out of walls is what I do,” he says. “Truly, my daughters and I are honored to have been able to help.”

“They saved Minseok’s life,” Jongdae informs their father, squeezing Minseok’s bruised forearm hard enough to make him fight off a wince. “They stopped me from pulling rocks out from the bottom, helped me take stones away from the top.”

“They’re good girls,” Foreman Do says, an arm around each of his daughters. “Please let us know if there’s anything else we can do for you while you’re here.”

“Is there anyone in Lydos that can set this stone in an existing neckpiece?” Minseok asks.

“Oh yes, we do have a few metalsmiths down here. No forge or anything, but they can do minor repairs. I’m sure one of them can take care of that for you.”

The girls accompany them as Minseok half-carries Jongdae back to their room, collecting the Soundbow to take it and the green stone off to the metalsmiths. As soon as they’ve scampered off, Jongdae’s pulling Minseok down into the bed with him.

“Lecture time over?” Minseok asks, smiling across the pillow at his still-exhausted charge. Jongdae’s looking a little wan beneath the glow of the green fungus, but his smile is wide and moving closer to Minseok’s own.

“For now,” Jongdae says, then he presses their lips together.

This time, Minseok responds immediately, sighing in pleasure when Jongdae’s hands find his hair. He lets Jongdae pull him close, wraps his arms around Jongdae, too, savoring each brush of lip against lip, devouring each of Jongdae’s breathy little sounds.

He’d not let himself even dream of this.

But the kiss in the cave had knocked the dust from his eyes. Jongdae’s been reeling him in for a while now, and Minseok had kept himself from truly seeing it. Had tried to keep himself from  _ desiring _ it.

Yet this is evidently what  _ Jongdae _ desires. And if his charge desires it, desires  _ him, _ Minseok’s only too happy to provide.

⁽𒀭❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

It takes Jongdae a moment to register it, having learned to all but ignore Minseok’s hardness against his hip. But they’re not waking up together, pressed close for warmth, bodies doing what bodies happen to do. No, the arousal pressed against Jongdae is— 

“Hard for me,” Jongdae breathes. “Seok, you’re so hard.”

“Of course I’m hard—you keep kissing me and making little hungry sounds.” There’s a pause, then Minseok shifts, pulling his hips away, voice gone from amused to unsure. “Sorry. I meant not to make you uncomfortable. Only I’m not used to kissing that’s not immediately leading to—well. Your kisses are already more than I ever expected.” 

He smiles at Jongdae, soft and shy, beautiful eyes dropping so Jongdae can count every fine eyelash against those smooth cheeks. “Dae, I’ve never been more blissful than I am right now.”

There are so many things wrong with that declaration. But Minseok's lips are shining, reddish and a little puffed from all the kissing, and Jongdae must lean in and taste them again. 

Minseok makes a happy little hum, mouth sweet and eager against Jongdae's own. The hum deepens to something like a moan when Jongdae pulls him closer, presses up against him, evidence that Minseok can feel Jongdae's own excitement through the layers of oxdown.

"Seok. Noble, heroic, selfless, ridiculously handsome Walker Minseok. You’ve been driving me mad for months.”

With an awkward chuckle, Minseok buries his face in Jongdae’s neck. “That was never my intention.”

“No, of course not. Your intention was to deny yourself, just as you deny yourself everything else, was it not?”

Minseok gives no answer but presses closer, fitting as perfectly into Jongdae’s arms as he’d always felt he fit into Minseok’s. The pair of them were made to fit together, made for each other, and the Resonance had given them to one another, the Clef and Stave enduring together.

“You hesitated not at all to save me, though the price could’ve been your own life.”

“I’ll not let you die.”

“For the Resonance?”

Minseok nods against his neck. “But… not only that.”

Jongdae waits, one arm curved up around Minseok’s sturdy waist, the other palm running repeatedly over the warm muscles of Minseok’s back, shoulder, arm. When no further words pass the Snow Walker’s lips, Jongdae pulls away a little, depriving Minseok of his sanctuary against Jongdae’s neck.

“Seokkie. What do you desire?”

“Nothing. I already have more than I could ever hope for.”

Jongdae drops his head back, growling in frustration. “Minseok, I’d give you the whole world if I could. But you’d not even value it, would you?”

“Of course I would—that’s why I’ll not let you die. You’re meant to give all of us the world, one we can survive in.”

Jongdae makes to protest, but Minseok presses a kiss to his open lips.

“But I do not need the whole world, Dae. Even were I to voice my wildest dreams, my secret, selfish desires, the sort that Snow Walkers know better than to think are anything more than warm fantasies for winter nights, I’d still only desire one thing.”

“And that is?”

Minseok’s huge seal-brown eyes lock onto Jongdae’s as if his soul is reaching across the small, cozy distance between them.

“To be yours, Chenny. I wish simply to belong to you. In whatever way you’ll have me, for however long I’m able.”

His voice is soft, serious, reverent; his words more a prayer than a declaration of desire or an oath of service. Jongdae can almost feel them Resonate against his sternum, thumping into him from one chest pressed against another alongside each beat of Minseok’s heart.

Jongdae’s eyes close even before his lips find Minseok’s, absorbing excess moisture into his lashes to keep it from spilling down his cheeks.

“Then you’ll belong to me forever, Seokkie,” he whispers with worshipful lips. “And I belong to you. As long as there’s breath in my body, I’m entirely yours.”

⁽𒀭❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

This.  _ This  _ is the kind of offer Minseok has dared not to even dream of. Jongdae’s mouth against his is sweet, hot, enthusiastic, and more than a little sloppy. It’s adorable, making Minseok wonder if he’s Jongdae’s first kiss. Surely not, with that smile, those cheeks, those endearing eyebrows. Surely someone had tasted these upturned lips before.

Jongdae sighs into his smile and Minseok pulls him closer, wraps him up securely in arms, legs, tongue. Jongdae tangles back, twining his fingers into Minseok’s hair, invading Minseok’s mouth with an impatient tongue. Minseok hums, enjoying the eagerness in his arms, the way Jongdae shivers when Minseok drags fingers down his back.

“Seok. Beautiful, steadfast, determined Seok. My Seok.”

“All yours,” Minseok confirms, thrill rising in his gut at Jongdae’s words. 

Jongdae’s not truly his, despite his earnest declaration. Jongdae belongs to Elyxion, and Minseok knows that he’ll not actually belong to him forever. Jongdae will save them all and relight the Tongues, and Minseok will return to his sworn duties, walking the bleak once again with only Tannie alive at his side.

But for now, Minseok will let himself indulge. He’ll accept Jongdae’s claim, accept the glorious glow in his chest at the idea that Jongdae desires him as more than an escort, that he would do more than merely sleep close for warmth, that he’s hard and hot and hungry for Minseok. Minseok will happily be devoured. Will happily relish the time he has with sweet, stubborn, stunning Chenny, reluctant savior, enduring Spark.

“Seokkie,” Jongdae murmurs between kisses. “You’re amazing. I’m so fortunate to have you with me, not just as an escort. You’re so much more than that to me, you know that, right? I care about you  _ so much. _ My Seok. You make me feel…  _ things.” _

Minseok’s laugh is breathy. “Things?”

“Soft things. Warm things. Fierce things.”

With far too many soft, warm feelings in his own heart than is wise, Minseok smiles, aiming for humor rather than letting himself be overwhelmed.

“Like a tundra cat?” he asks

“Yes. I feel tundra cat things. About you.”

Minseok’s face is so warm and his heartbeat is rapid. So much for deflecting. At a loss for what to say to that, he merely cuddles closer, rests his face against Jongdae’s neck, presses his lips against the pulse he finds there, ignores the way his ribs protest every time he inhales.

Jongdae squeezes his tender torso only briefly before pushing him gently away, fingertips on Minseok’s chin when he tries to duck his head rather than meet Jongdae’s so-intense eyes.

“Minseok… am I alone in my feelings?”

His voice is soft and a bit rough, old sueded leather left out in the elements. Minseok cannot leave him hanging any more than he could allow the kit that keeps him alive to perish through inattention.

“No,” he says, just as softly, managing to meet Jongdae’s eyes briefly before studying the way the corners of his lips turn up even when he’s got the lower one trapped between hesitant teeth. “I told you I’m entirely unused to these sorts of feelings, much less how to properly express them.”

Jongdae’s face relaxes, so Minseok’s chest does, too. The ends of his unfurling smile tug at Minseok’s belly.

“I needn’t any lyrical verse, my Seok. I just need to know that I’m not just another warm body in your sleeping furs. That you’re blissful in my arms because of who I am and not just because of how I touch you. That this is more than some pleasant perk to ushering me back and forth through the bleak.”

Minseok seizes another chance to break the heaviness of these loaded words. “What happened to the boy who said I could use his body for payment?”

“He finally grew up,” Jongdae answers with a wry half-smile. “I would have this not at all if that’s how you view it. I’m not interested in merely dallying with you, Minseok.”

“I’ve no wish to dally, either,” Minseok says. 

Jongdae’s face is beautiful, resolute,  _ precious. _ He’s searching Minseok’s face with wide, serious, hopeful eyes. “Then what do you wish to do?”

“Cherish you,” Minseok informs him, then kisses him again.

Jongdae’s hands come up to cradle Minseok’s face and suddenly he feels cherished, too; valued in a way he’s not sure he remembers ever feeling. In Jongdae’s arms, Minseok’s not a stone cast away to make a cart able to be pulled, ice chopped away from the runners of a sledge so it’ll glide over frozen ground. He’s not a faceless servant of the silenced referred to by only his job title, not someone whose parents had not kept him long enough to give him so much as a proper name.

He’s Minseok, Jongdae’s Seok, and Dae desires him, desires  _ him, _ not merely for physical warmth or sexual comfort but because he  _ feels things _ about Minseok himself.

Minseok pours all of his own warm, soft, fierce feelings into their kiss, lets Jongdae tilt his face to seal their mouths together more completely, parts his lips again for Jongdae’s tongue, lets himself be devoured. He’s permissive but not passive, responding with eager movements of his own lips, sultry licks of his own tongue.

He can feel Jongdae hardening again against his hip and pulls him closer, shifts so Jongdae can feel his own renewing arousal, not for dallying but for  _ Dae. _ This is no overwhelmed child, no lost boy, no helpless victim. The man in his arms knows what he desires, started this whole thing, so Minseok has no reservations about enjoying himself. Enjoying Jongdae.

Jongdae moans when Minseok presses against him. He rolls Minseok onto his back and Minseok goes willingly despite the bruises, spreads his legs to make room for Jongdae’s hips between his thighs, lining their arousals up and pulling another moan from Jongdae’s precious lips.

He’d never truly been that keen on kissing with previous partners, only using it as a way to confirm interest and initiate arousal, quickly moving on to more direct forms of stimulation. But with this sweet sunshine making soft little noises against his mouth, Minseok’s more than content to do this forever. 

This is not mutual physical release. This is something much sweeter, far deeper, something he has only one word for despite his questions for Jongdae earlier, despite being unable to voice the word that has always been so unthinkable. Jongdae has been basking in Minseok’s affection, but hearing out loud that Minseok’s feelings are returned, feeling the tenderness with which Jongdae holds him, makes the kisses they’re sharing far more delicious than cloudberries plump at the end of summer. 

“Dae,” Minseok gets ahold of himself enough to murmur against insistent lips. “I’d rather not stain our nice new oxdown underthings. Would you prefer to stop or strip?”

“Strip,” Jongdae almost growls. “Let me put my hands on you. Learn how you like it. Make sure you only ever wish to shatter in my arms.”

“By all means,” Minseok laughs.

A few moments of fumbling later, they’re nude beneath the fluffy blankets. But Minseok’s not fast enough to cover himself before Jongdae gets a look at the deep purple liberally splashed over his upper body. His gasp is so sharp as to be almost comical.

“You hauled me around when I’m just worn out and you’re clapping  _ injured?” _

“Nothing’s broken,” Minseok assures him. He’s not in that much pain—nothing sharp, merely tender, tugging soreness that he’d forgotten about with all the lust swirling overtop. “I’ll heal perfectly fine. Nothing to worry about.”

Jongdae frowns. Minseok can see him fret and would rather see his face contorted for an entirely different reason. So he reaches out with his less-bruised arm and hauls Jongdae close again. “I said not to worry. Kiss me some more and send my bruises from both our minds.”

It takes Jongdae a few kisses to get swept away by ardor rather than concern, but it’s not long before Jongdae again has Minseok on his back beneath him. Minseok fails to swallow his moan when Jongdae’s skin presses hot against his own. Jongdae hums in response, low and hungry, and Minseok lets him take control, lets Jongdae lead with lips and tongue, runs his palms over Jongdae’s back and shoulders, hips and ass, expressing his appreciation for Jongdae’s attentions without trying to direct the action. 

It’s a bit difficult, Minseok’s urge being to flip them both over and bury himself inside the gorgeous, vibrant man in his arms, but Jongdae seems determined to dismantle him with lips and tongue, hands and fingers. Minseok has no intention of interfering if that’s what Dae wishes.

“Seok,” Jongdae groans when he finally wraps a hand around Minseok’s arousal. “Let me work you with my mouth. Let me stripe you with my pleasure once you’re spent.”

Minseok moans at the very thought, then tilts his head, gazing at the man above him through half-lidded eyes. “Would you rather pump your pleasure into me?” he asks, and has the distinct pleasure of watching Jongdae’s thoughts freeze glacier-solid.

“But we’ve no—I’ve no wish to hurt you.”

Minseok’s smile is slow and probably way too fond. “Lanolin has many uses,” he says, nodding towards the chest at the end of the bed.

Jongdae’s eyes go big, then he scrambles to fetch the pot of salve, entirely unconcerned with dignity in a way that makes Minseok laugh out loud to see. Jongdae’s expression is adorably sheepish as he crawls back onto the bed and settles between Minseok’s legs. Still chuckling, Minseok bends one knee and hugs the other to his chest, opening himself to Jongdae’s gentle, lanolin-coated fingers. Jongdae’s face flashes with satisfaction when Minseok’s amusement dissolves around a moan.

“That’s it—sing for me, Seokkie.”

Minseok happily obliges, letting his voice ring out with pleasure and anticipation, fondness and frustration as Jongdae works him open, teasing Minseok with the engulfing wet heat of his mouth at the same time. As with kissing, there’s far more enthusiasm than finesse, but Jongdae is thorough in making sure Minseok’s well prepared before he lines himself up, reclaiming Minseok’s mouth as he slowly pushes inside.

Minseok has never felt so truly, completely  _ warm. _

They moan in unison, producing a briefly Resonant harmonic that makes the fungus overhead flicker and twinkle. Minseok closes his eyes as Jongdae’s tongue probes deep, grabbing two handfuls of Jongdae’s rounded ass to pull him in deeper.

Taking the hint, Jongdae rolls his hips, thrusting slow and firm, pace increasing with the pitch of Minseok’s moans. It’s so deliciously intense, to feel the physical and the emotional together. A tear leaks from Minseok’s squeezed-shut eyes as he arches his back, chasing friction between their bodies. Then Jongdae’s wrapping a hand around Minseok’s length, spine stiffening even as he tries to keep stroking in rhythm, throbbing inside Minseok as Minseok groans out his own release.

They pant in syncope as the fungus slowly resumes its usual steady glow, grinning stupidly at each other. Jongdae puts a hand on Minseok’s chest when he tries to sit up, pulling out slowly and fetching a damp cloth from the washbasin to wipe Minseok clean.

Then Jongdae cuddles close, wrapping around Minseok for more kisses, soft and languid, that Minseok smiles into with closed eyes, dreams dancing behind his lids.

⁽𒀭❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

As soon as Jongdae awakes, he can hear Minseok’s breathing pause. The entire world seems paused as Jongdae takes in the fact that he’s nude, Minseok’s nude, they’re both hard, and after months of waking up with Minseok’s stiffness pressed against his hip and his own arousal hot between his legs, Jongdae can finally do something about it.

Even before their lips actually meet, Minseok’s breath whooshes out in a happy little sigh, chuckling when Jongdae nibbles at his lip. 

“Morning to you, too, Chenny.”

“I thought I was Dae now.”

“If that’s what you prefer.”

“What do you prefer?”

“Anything that makes you smile to hear it.”

“I’ll happily answer to any name you give me, my Seok. Call me as you will.”

Nobody calls anyone anything after that, but that’s because their mouths are busy with other tasks. Minseok’s not at all shy about his pleasure, tangling fingers in Jongdae’s hair, moaning wordlessly between breathy babbles of praise.

“Yes, Chenny. That mouth stretched around me. Your beautiful eyes—those lashes, Dae. Tongue feels so good—ah! Yes, Chen, so hot. You take me so deep. Dae, I’m on the edge, you’ve got me right there, if you’d have it elsewhere than your mouth, you—Oh,  _ Dae.” _

Jongdae’s name has never sounded sweeter on anyone else’s lips. And no one else’s lips have felt anywhere near as good wrapped around him, no one else has swallowed him down so well, hummed hot and low as they sucked, looked up at him with wide, wicked tundra cat eyes. Jongdae sings out his pleasure, shaping it into his Seok’s name as he pulses hard and long down Minseok’s throat.

They lay twined and panting, tasting themselves on each other’s tongue, smiling softly at each other, hands in each other’s hair.

“So thrilled to get to have you like this,” Minseok murmurs, gaze roaming Jongdae’s face. “So honored that you desire me, too.”

“Of course I desire you—how could I not, when you’re all handsome and noble, sweet and brave?”

“You’re the brave one,” Minseok demurs. “I merely walk alongside greatness.”

“You’re your own sort of great. And you do more than walk beside me—the sea shimmer atop your staff would be useless without the globe that holds it together and lets it shine.”

This makes Minseok tuck his chin and butt his forehead against Jongdae’s shoulder, so Jongdae holds him even closer, smiling into his hair.

It’s ridiculously endearing that Minseok has zero shame about physical pleasure (and obviously has far greater skills and experience than Jongdae does), yet he blushes like a schoolboy whenever those tundra-cat  _ feelings _ color the conversation. He’s six years older than Jongdae, is so much more wise and worldly, yet he’s a flustered novice in this regard.

It’s rather a relief. Jongdae’s had crushes, he’s managed to try it on with a handful of partners, male and female. But he’s never been in  _ love, _ and it’s kind of nice that Minseok never has, either. That it’s something they can explore together, hand in hand, each leading the other.

Hand in hand is how they leave Lydos, extensive goodbyes exchanged with Foreman Do and his daughters.

“Safe travels,” Meokmul and Huchu call in unison as the lift takes them back up to the surface. “Resonance preserve you!”

Jongdae waves and smiles, thanking the foreman again for all his help. He swallows his own unease at stepping once again onto the lychway and starting out across the bleak. It’ll be even worse when they step  _ off _ the lychway, creeping up the rocky coast beyond Dominari. Resonance willing, they’ll find the island hunting camp of Gyun undisturbed by the shadows.

But of course the Resonance would be willing, would it not? Unless Uncle Baekhyun’s wrong about where the next stone should be.

Resonance willing, Uncle Baekhyun’s not wrong.

⁽𒀭❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾


	6. Whole Note

# Whole࿄Note

Picking his way along the coast makes Minseok feel exposed in a way that walking through the bleak never has. The glacial cliff to his right should be a reassuring presence, but it’s not enough to counter the endless expanse of icy sea.

Tan seems similarly uneasy, sniffing at algae-coated rocks before attempting to bury them, paws gouging trenches in the gravel beach. But it’s Tan that alerts them to the presence of seabird eggs when Minseok catches her licking yellow yolk off her muzzle.

“Jongdae, do you think we can find any nests before Tan does? Are they on the beach or up on the cliffs?”

“Oh! They’ll be above the tide line, on top of rocks or along the cliffs wherever there’s a wide enough ledge. They pluck the moss off surrounding stones and pad the nest with it, so just look for patches of green-brown among all the gray. We were always taught to only harvest one egg per nest, so there’ll be more birds next year. But there are lots of birds, so it’s fine if Tan fails to follow that rule.”

Minseok nods his understanding, scouring the pale stone around them for the telltale collections of moss. He shouts in triumph as he finds a nest, carefully lifting one of the eggs and shooing Tan away from the rest. By midday, they’ve a dozen eggs between them, enough to pause for a rest and boil hard, snacking on a few and tucking the rest away for later.

They round a thick, stony promontory and Tan pins her ears back, hissing at a cave yawning black beneath overhanging stone. There’s no danger immediately evident, but Minseok eyes it warily as they pass, keeping himself between it and Jongdae.

“That’s the secret tunnel,” Jongdae suddenly blurts, stopping in his tracks to stare at the dark opening. “The one Jihyo and I found as children.”

Minseok lifts a brow, gaze flitting between Jongdae and the agitated tundra cat. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure—the way the opening is shaped looks a little like a wolf’s head. I remember that well from our childhood adventure.”

“You must’ve walked all day, if you were still half-grown.”

“We did—we were so tired by the end, but we refused to give up until we found the end. When we got to this beach, we could barely see the Tongues in the distance, and that’s when we realized how far from home we’d ended up. Jihyo started to cry, because our tallow candle was too low to make it back and it was getting dark. But Jongdeok had noticed the open door in the back wall of the storage room we were meant to be cleaning only a few hours after we’d entered, and with longer legs, my parents caught us up. They stepped out of the tunnel only a few moments later, and I saw the glow of their lantern and thought the cave looked like a glowing wolf, head back and howling. See?”

Minseok nods. It’s a vaguely triangular opening with a blunted tip, and he could see how that might look like a muzzle to an imaginative child.

Jongdae smiles down at the rocky shore, kicking a cluster of pebbles. “When they stepped out, they found their children each trying to shield the other from the ‘threat’ coming from the tunnel, arguing about whether it should be the younger or the smaller being protected. Turns out, we ended up in the same amount of very deep trouble, so it was all for naught.”

Minseok chuckles. “Well. Tan’ll make sure nothing creeps out of it behind us without our knowing. If we hurry, we might be able to cross tonight if the tide’s in our favor.”

Neither of them can keep from glancing over their shoulder periodically at the dark patch getting smaller and smaller, Tan on the alert between them and the tunnel. Even when they round the next promontory and can see the tiny island, stone shelters huddled atop it like walruses on an ice floe, they’re both compelled to keep checking for threats at their back.

Night has fallen by the time they approach the point nearest the island, and Minseok frowns at the sea level before turning again to reassure himself nothing is in pursuit save Tan. And promptly runs into Jongdae’s back, grunting at the impact.

“Seok, cover your lychlight.”

Minseok does so without question as Jongdae tucks the moonglobe atop his staff beneath his coat. A moment later, Minseok can blink the stars into focus, a dusting of icy sparkles curving down to meet the dark surface of the sea.

“Seokkie—are those… lights?”

“Where?”

“On the island.”

Minseok peers at the interruption of the smooth horizon, black on black distinct only by the blocking of the stars and the absence of rippling reflections of moonlight on water. Except there are still stars strewn over the island, warm glows instead of pale pinpricks.

“Are there usually hunters there this time of year?”

“No. Gyun is only used in winter.”

“Perhaps some were there before the solstice, and had to go back when they were unable to return to Dominari.”

“Perhaps. But usually everyone tries to be home for the longest night. To be at the temple, in hopes of a Resonant year to come.”

“Well, we can be sure they’re not caused by the shadows.”

“True.”

Jongdae’s unable to stop staring at the lights as they set up camp, having to wait hours for the tide to go out enough to uncover the sandbar connecting the island with the mainland. They end up sitting side by side on the sealskins, still fully dressed, sharing a pot of lichen tea as they eat the rest of the eggs along with dried flakes of algae peeled from rocks they passed that afternoon.

As soon as the sandbar is exposed enough not to soak through their boots, they set off, having packed their gear and paced restlessly along the shore until Jongdae deemed it safe. Tan stays behind on the shore, not a fan of water at the best of times. The light from their staves blinds them a bit to the lights from the island, but as they get closer and closer, it’s more and more obvious that several of the shelters house some sort of human-made illumination.

This illumination seems to gather on the edge of the island, as if waiting for them. And Minseok supposes that makes sense, that any inhabitants would be suspicious of two approaching lights, one the distinct shade of a lychlight.

“Please tell us that you’re alive,” a voice calls out once they’re close enough to see a knot of people standing on the short, stony beach.

“We’re alive,” Jongdae calls back. “Two living men, though one of us usually Walks with the dead.”

There’s an audible gasp, a pair of sharp inhalations, then a choked sob, high and feminine. A beat later, an incredulous voice reaches down the sandbar.

“Jongdae? My son, is that truly you?”

⁽𒀭❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Jongdae freezes at the sound of a voice he thought he’d never hear again. But then a silhouette dashes towards him with the sound of boots on sand, and Minseok almost looks like he’ll step between them. But he pulls clear at the last minute, and a petite figure crashes into him, staggering him enough that Minseok catches him by the arm to keep him from going over.

“ChenChen.”

The name’s all but obscured by a sob, and Jongdae wraps his arms around his sister. “JiJi,” he murmurs into her hair. “How’re you alive?”

“Come indoors before we all catch a chill,” a new voice says, and Jongdae looks up to see a man standing beside his father, flickering lantern-light failing to reach a pair of deep dimples. “Tearful reunions call for ice algae tea.”

The man, a little taller than his father, ushers everyone into a stone shelter not truly designed to house that many people. Everyone fits, partly because Jongdae, his father, and Jihyo are all occupying the typical space a single person inhabits.

“You’re truly here,” Jihyo keeps saying between sniffles. She keeps touching his face, hands, and hair between crushing him with hugs.

“I held out hope,” his father adds, an arm around each of his younger children. “Everything was so like the words of the ancestors, I had to hope the Spark was alive.”

“You knew I’m meant to be this Spark?”

“Of course, my son. That’s why I named you boldly, why I trained you so meticulously. From the moment you let out your very first cry, I knew that someday, Elyxion would need you. And here you are.”

A tumult of emotions fights for control of Jongdae’s chest. “Dad. I think I’m truly, truly mad at you. You’re so lucky right now that I care more about the fact that you’re not dead.”

“I’m not dead,” his father chuckles.

Jongdae tries to crane his neck around the other bodies closest to him—Minseok, tucked into a corner. The dimpled man, smiling fondly at them. Faces he vaguely recognizes from their visits to the temple for worship or deliveries of goods. But not the other two faces he’s desperate to see.

“Where’s Mom?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. “And Jongdeok?”

His father’s eyes cloud. “Silenced, I’m afraid, my boy.”

Fresh tears spring to Jongdae’s eyes, and he ducks his head against his father’s sturdy chest. He’s tangled in his dad and sister, pressed so tight against what remains of his family.

“We still have each other, and we’ll not forget them,” his father murmurs, chest rumbling against Jongdae’s ear. “You’re ‘preserved to serve the Resonance,’ and that’s the greatest comfort to my heart.”

They stay like that for long minutes, then his father is the first to pull away. “Jongdae. This is Yixing, to whom we all owe our survival.”

“No one owes me anything,” the dimpled man demurs. “Healers heal. That’s all we know how to do.”

“But how many healers have your Resonant gifts?”

“All of those on this island.”

“Because you taught them well,” his father insists.

Jihyo, still clinging to Jongdae, rolls red-rimmed eyes up at him. “They do this all the time, ChenChen, and I’ve had to suffer it alone.”

“Do what?”

“Just constantly  _ compliment _ each other while downplaying their own strengths. It’s so gross, DaeDae.”

Jongdae raises his brows, then narrows his eyes at his father and Yixing. They’re looking at each other in a way that looks all too familiar, and it makes Jongdae flash hot and icy all at once.

“Are they…?” He’s not even able to say it.

“No,” Jihyo says. “Not truly. Not yet. Mom’s been gone months, Jongdae—I’d wish Dad to heal and be happy. She’d wish that, too. But Dad’ll not truly be able to let go of her until we know for sure. Until she’s been sent to the dance.”

Jongdae’s jaw hurts from how hard his teeth are clenched.

“It’s weird for you, huh? Because this is all so new, finding us, not finding Mom. But we’ve been huddled on this island since the solstice, ChenChen. Many lonely, grieving folks have found comfort in one another. Like you’ve done with your handsome Walker.”

_ Minseok. _ Jongdae lifts his head, suddenly desperate to lay eyes on his beloved. He’s still in the same corner, pretending like he’s not watching Jongdae and his family. But Jongdae catches his eye the next time he glances over, unable to stop the fond smile from stretching his lips. Minseok drops his eyes but smiles back.

“He’s the one I was telling you about, in the bellcote before the cancion. How come you’ve that gorgeous man staring at you like you hung the moon and I’ve been stuck on this pile of rocks with no one to make my heart pound?”

Jihyo’s playful tone is a little forced, but Jongdae goes with it gratefully, willing to be distracted from things he’d rather not think about.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me how you’re all here. How many are there? How did you all survive?”

“When the roof came down, the floor fell through, and a lot of us ended up in the undercroft. I found a Walker’s staff with the lychlight unbroken, and remembered that old tunnel.”

“We passed it,” Jongdae breathes. “You walked all the way here in that unnatural cold?”

“When it’s keep moving or die, not just die but be swallowed by some kind of living darkness, you better believe we marched our asses here, carrying those unable to walk for themselves. We all held on to each other to stay together and keep calm, and I led them with that lychlight. I knew not even if Dad was alive until we got here—he was the last one out, making sure nobody still living had been left behind.”

That lump of spiked guilt tries to form in Jongdae’s throat, but Minseok’s voice cuts across his father’s continuing compliment battle with Yixing.

“You were meant to end up where you did, Dae. You should not have been doing anything else except that which you’ve done.”

“Bells, even his voice is like a warm, fleecy blanket,” Jihyo whisper-whines. “Does he have a friend you could introduce me to?”

Jongdae feels a genuine laugh squirm through the knot in his chest. “He does, but she’s a bit hairier than you generally prefer.”

“I’d prefer a man, but I’m fine with hairy if she’s cute otherwise.”

“She has a certain fierce charm. Pretty eyes—I know you’re into that.”

Jihyo sucks in an appreciative breath. “I am.”

“But I think the fangs would probably make kissing somewhat of a challenge.”

There’s a pause, then a fist thumps against his ribs. “Kim Jongdae, are you suggesting I be set up with some sort of beast?”

Minseok tuts from his corner. “Tan is a lady of refinement,” he states, wearing that playful smirk Jongdae loves. “She’d be most offended to be referred to so coarsely.”

Jihyo turns her suspicious gaze on him, failing to hide the smile beneath the scowl. “Does this refined lady have a tail?”

Minseok grins. “Only a short one. It’s entirely unnoticeable when sleeping alongside.”

“Any tail at all is too much tail for me, I’m afraid,” Jihyo laughs. “How does she like Jongdae?”

“She seems to’ve taken a bit of a fancy to him. Even lets him scratch behind her ears exactly the way she likes best.”

Jihyo turns wicked eyes back to Jongdae. “Aww, ChenChen—I’m so glad you finally got to prove your ability to please a girl.”

Jongdae tries to pout at this insult, but he’s too enthralled by the way Jihyo’s giggles harmonize with Minseok’s belly laugh.

⁽𒀭❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

It’s a bit strange, as it always is, to watch a true, loving family up close. Minseok’s tucked up into a cozy corner of the one-room stone shelter, but he feels as though he’s on the outside looking in, peering through a window of streaked glass at warmth and light as he stands alone in the cold.

He’s thrilled for Jongdae. He’s wished for nothing more than to have his family back, and though it seems that wish is only partially fulfilled, the relief and elation in his eyes far outshine the haze of grief. So Minseok tries not to feel jealous, not to feel possessive of that which was never truly his. He belongs to Jongdae, has ever since his lychlight revealed a devastated boy at his feet. But Jongdae belongs to Elyxion. To his family. Not to the Snow Walker the Resonance gave to the Spark.

Sure, Jongdae holds affection for him. Minseok doubts not the veracity or strength of Jongdae’s feelings for him. But he knows that, were he cut from the score of Jongdae’s future, the Spark would endure. Minseok’s a mere accessory to Jongdae’s success and happiness, like a scarf when one already has a thick fur-lined hood that tightens close around one’s face. He does his best to make Jongdae warm and comfortable, but he’s not  _ essential. _ The Resonance will be served with or without Minseok.

Yet Minseok’s nothing if he’s not Jongdae’s, merely an abandoned child conditioned to cold and exertion, a lost life consigned to service.

It’s hard not to smile when Jongdae starts joking with his sister even through their tears. He has no wish to join in, exactly, but they’re so easy with each other that it feels as though he’s welcome, included based on mere proximity. Jihyo had been like that when she’d served him dinner so long ago, setting him right at ease despite his lack of physical interest in the girl. Even though he’d not taken her up on her offer, he’d remembered her well enough that he’d recognized her when she’d charged through the dark to embrace her brother.

“Brother dear, you know I’m overjoyed to have you back, but you absolutely stink and I’ll not bear it any more. Go scrub in the hot spring, the both of you, while we make room for your sleeping furs.”

Minseok raises a brow at this suggestion, but Jongdae’s already whining at his sister and grabbing Minseok’s hand.

“That’s why the hunters camp here, because they can warm up easily if anyone falls into the sea. We learn that in our lessons, but I’ve never been here before. A hot bath we needn’t work to heat ourselves sounds wonderful.”

“It does,” Minseok agrees.

He lets himself be led toward another stone shelter, this one with steam instead of light leaking from the opening. It’s built straddling the edge of a similarly-steaming pool of metallic-scented water, such that one could duck beneath one wall and swim out into the heated spring.

As soon as the walrus-hide flap is in place over the doorway, Jongdae’s hands are working at Minseok’s clothes, wicked little smirk blooming over his face. Minseok rolls his eyes, but he’s happy enough to know that certain of his body parts are about to be “scrubbed” more than others.

“Seok, you’re so beautiful. I know I say that all the time, but every time I actually get to see your skin instead of merely feeling it against me, it steals my breath more than Sehun’s whistle.”

The heat in Minseok’s cheeks has little to do with the steaming pool beside them. “Ah, you needn’t work so hard. You know I’m happy to find pleasure with you.”

“Wrong answer,” Jongdae huffs as he steps out of the last of his own clothes. “You’re meant to say ‘Dae, I find you attractive, too.’ And then we start kissing.”

“I do find you incredibly attractive. Do I truly need to say it? Or can we start the kissing right away?”

“Compliments first, then kissing,” Jongdae insists, gaze roaming over Minseok’s body as he leads him into the water.

It’s almost too warm, but Minseok supposes that’s because he’s so used to scrubbing under his arms and between his legs with melted snow every few days so as not to offend Jongdae’s town-raised hygiene standards. Warm baths are a luxury he’d rarely experienced before Jongdae, but he’d gladly have one every day if it means hearing Jongdae’s throaty sigh upon sinking to his knees, neck-deep in the water.

“I love your smile,” Minseok says. “Especially that one you’re wearing right now, the relaxed, contented one. It reminds me of Tannie when her belly’s full and she’s found a boulder warmed by the summer sun. A happy cat’s smile.”

“Seok. You’re meant to be seducing me, not making me feel soft and squishy.”

Minseok’s knees hit the fine gravel beneath the heated water and he reaches out an arm to hook it around Jongdae’s tiny waist. “Can I not do both?”

“You always do,” Jongdae huffs, but he’s smiling as he leans in to press their lips together.

Minseok knows his duty to his Dae and to the Resonance. But there’s still part of him that wishes they could stay like this forever, warm and safe and in each other’s arms, trading kisses and compliments and caresses. Except that nowhere’s truly safe until they complete their quest, so Minseok will simply enjoy this while he can, save up memories to warm himself with later. 

Somehow Minseok does manage to wash himself and Jongdae despite Dae’s hands everywhere and mouth sucking bruises into Minseok’s skin. When he deems them clean enough and all the soap is rinsed from their hair, Minseok lets his head drop back to give Jongdae more of his neck to paint with his claims. No one had truly marked Minseok up like this before, but he loves that Jongdae loves it, loves wearing the prints of Dae’s hungry mouth beneath his scarf, loves feeling the little twinges when his skin stretches over the marks, just like he loves feeling the echo of Jongdae inside him as he strides down the lychways at his side.

There’s sheepsfoot oil among the jars of soap on the stone shelf, and that’s how Minseok finds himself sprawled at the edge of the pool, up on his elbows to watch the incredibly arousing sight of Jongdae’s dark lashes kissing sharp cheekbones, that happy cat smile stretched around him while slick fingers slide into him.

“So good to me, Dae,” Minseok gasps when fingertips brush that sensitive spot inside him.

Jongdae lifts his head to look at Minseok, brow furrowed. “Am I truly?”

“Always.”

“You’d not rather have me, sometimes, instead of always giving yourself over?”

Minseok shrugs. “I’m happy to share pleasure however you like it best. I’ve no objection to being always beneath you, but if you wish for me to take you, I will.”

Jongdae frowns. “You’re allowed to have preferences, too, Seok. You always give me the most and take the least, and when we’re Walking the bleak, I tolerate it because I need it. But when we’re together like this, you needn’t just go along. The Stave’s not the one meant to merely endure.”

“I’d ‘endure’ even without the prophecy, though it’s not at all a hardship. I take care of you because I care for you. And when we’re together like this, I’m flattered that you take such good care of me.”

Jongdae’s face relaxes, smirk finding its way back onto those upturned lips. “I do love taking care of you for a change,” he says. “It’s truly flattering that you so easily allow me to do so. You’re so strong, mind and body, and I never could force you. Not to go away, not to let me march into danger, not to take up this blasted quest on my behalf even though you’re far more heroic. Yet here you are, spread out for me to feast on, grateful for my attention like it’s something you’ve not always had, clothes or not. This is why I’ve so many tundra cat feelings for you, my Seok.”

Minseok has rather a lot of feelings himself at the moment. “In such a case,” he murmurs, “Please enjoy your willing meal.”

⁽𒀭❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Being inside Minseok, his Seok, is always such an intense pleasure. Not just the welcoming warmth of his body, the embrace of those strong arms, the relaxed eagerness of his mouth. There’s also the little grunts and sighs, the murmurs of Jongdae’s name, soft words that seem to Resonate like a new-cast bell within his heart. With Minseok’s skin hot against his own, any fumbling encounters Jongdae may have experienced in the past are obliterated by the symphony of their pleasure.

It feels especially harmonic this time, the way Minseok’s groan Resonates with his own shout to set his blood simmering long after the waves of ecstasy have ebbed. 

“I love you so much, Seokkie,” Jongdae murmurs against Minseok’s lips as they cling to each other, again kneeling in the hot spring to rinse one last time.

Minseok’s breath catches, then flows out of him in a gentle laugh. “I love you more, Chenny.”

“Not possible,” Jongdae says, tugging Minseok from the pool to wrap him in absorbant, oil-tanned suede. “We’ll love each other equally. Take good care of each other.”

“I’ll always take care of you, Dae,” Minseok answers, kissing away Jongdae’s resulting frown.

Jongdae allows himself to be distracted, but not completely. In the back of his mind he’s contemplating ways to show his love just how much he adores him, something that’ll not merely look like gratitude from the Spark to his escort, something that proves Jongdae cares about Minseok for his own sake.

He’s still thinking about it as they settle down to grab a few hours of sleep, wrapped in their sealskins between his father and sister. It’s his first thought when he wakes to see Minseok a handspan away, gazing sleepily at him through barely-open lids. 

It stays with him as his father shows them around the island, meeting the several hundred people who made it out of the temple that terrible night. It’s impressive how homey they’ve made the once-rudimentary camp, meant to house hunting parties between forays over frozen ocean to find where seals and walrus come up for air, or to drop fishing lines through holes chopped in the ice.

Now instead of small bands of people in their prime, fit and conditioned to the cold, the basic shelters comfortably house children and elderly, even two infants born on the island. There are sadly a pair of silenced waiting at the far edge of the island, shrouded in sealskins in lieu of evenweave.

The only cloth the survivors have is what they happened to be wearing, but his father’s voice is full of pride when he describes how they made the best use of what they had; how they unraveled adult sweaters to re-knit soft clothing for children, how they made use of the food stores and hunting equipment stored at the camp to provide for themselves, how they’d all worked together like the ancestors must have.

It’s almost homey now, children playing outside in the warmest hours of the afternoon, people knitting together or stitching hides into clothing, people drying meat and fish not immediately needed against a time when food is scarce again.

Jongdae’s heart is about to overflow with pride when Minseok ducks into their stone shelter and comes out a moment later with their older underthings, Minseok’s original oxdown set that he’d given Jongdae and the lambswool replacements. Thanks to Phrygia’s knitting guild, they each have well-fitting oxdown sets, and had only been carrying these around as spares. But now Minseok takes them to where two men and a woman are chatting while unravelling a man’s cable-knit sweater, the former owner being measured for a sealskin shirt to replace it.

“My daughter’s expecting any day now,” the man says in response to Minseok’s presence. “Her little ‘un ‘ll need that soft wool more’n an old man.”

“Congratulations,” Minseok offers with a smile. “Perhaps these may help. It’s warming up now, but I’m sure you can still find a use for oxdown and lambswool finely spun.”

The knitters gasp. “We’ll not take warmth away from one who Walks the bleak,” one man says.

“We’ve still all we need without these,” Minseok assures him. “If you can make some use of them, please do.”

Jongdae remembers fighting with his sister because he wished not to share his toys, when thanks to Jongdeok he had so many he’d never have noticed that Jihyo had taken one if she’d not waved it in his face. But Minseok owns no more than what he wears and carries, and he’s giving away some of the most valuable just because someone else seems to need them more.

Always giving, his Seok. Jongdae admits that his voice is purer than most, but if there’s a “selfless heart” mentioned in the prophecy, it’s certainly the Stave, not the Clef.

Jongdae’s continuously humbled by the man he’s lucky enough to love, lucky enough to be loved in return. Somehow, Jongdae  _ must _ show Minseok that he’s loved for the amazing man he is and not merely for what he does for Jongdae. Jongdae not only appreciates him. He adores him, and he’s determined to make sure Minseok knows it.

The puzzle of how exactly to do this follows Jongdae into his dreams again. And in the morning, he opens his eyes with a plan lodged in his mind.

Jihyo eagerly agrees to help, after doing a lot of squealing with her hand over her mouth as she jumps up and down and punches Jongdae’s arm.

“Ow! Why’re you hitting me?”

“Because you’re even grosser than Dad and Yixing, and I refuse to suffer alone.”

Jongdae steps out of reach, rubbing his arm with a huff. “There’s a girl in Phrygia who shares your feelings,” he tells her. “Less violent about it, though.”

“Great. I’ve always wished to go to Phrygia. Hurry up and save the world so I can go and meet this girl.”

“No way,” Jongdae laughs. “If I do all the work to save Elyxion, I’m not allowing the two of you to get together and immediately endanger it again.”

Jihyo gasps.  _ “Rude.” _

She still agrees to help Jongdae, and after a morning spent catching up with his father (and begrudgingly succumbing to Yixing’s good-natured charm), Jongdae manages to slip away from the group to meet her in the storage shelter, the one with crocks of preserved food, hunting and fishing equipment, and, happily for Jongdae, tattooing supplies.

It’s tradition for hunters to wear their achievements permanently inked into their skin, and the bone needles and pots of blue-black ink are waiting to be appropriated for Jongdae’s plans. There are even instructions, written so even a novice can hope to achieve a good result as long as they’re not too timid with the needle. 

That’s definitely not a problem for Jihyo. Tucked into a corner between bronze and leather shelves, she gleefully pokes the design onto Jongdae’s shoulder by the light of his moonglobe, lilting to renew it herself when it starts to fade halfway through.

“Try to resist freaking out if he fails to immediately react with a smile,” Jihyo cautions as she rubs seal grease over the irritated skin. “Everyone’s different, of course, but in my experience, Snow Walkers are rarely the singular, specific target of deliberate affection. It seemed to kind of freak a lot of them out when I’d sing them to sleep, like they’d no idea how to deal with not just being useful and then being left behind.”

Jongdae nods. “Minseok never prioritizes himself, and generally objects whenever I insist on doing so. But that’s why I’m doing this. Even if he has trouble accepting it, the fact is that my heart’ll always belong to him.”

“Bells, you’re so gross. Go get beat up for being a lovesick idiot, already.”

⁽𒀭❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Minseok loves all of Jongdae’s smiles, but he’s spent enough time with him to know to be entirely suspicious of this particular one. Especially when it comes with kisses, like the ones Jongdae’s pressing against his face.

“What calamity is imminent?”

“Whatever do you mean, Seokkie?”

“I mean, what’s about to happen that I’m not going to enjoy?”

Jongdae pouts. “Nothing. I just truly, truly love you.”

Minseok narrows his eyes. “I love you, too. But I’m questioning the wisdom of doing so at the moment.”

Still, he lets Jongdae distract him with more kisses for a few moments before gently pushing him away. “Did your father have any idea about any sort of stone here?”

Jongdae’s face twists into a grimace. “I’ve, uh, not actually asked him about that yet.”

Minseok nods. “I’m sure you’re enjoying each other’s company. As you should. But if he has any ideas, I can look while you spend time with your family.”

The grimace becomes a frown. “Seok, I’ll not leave you the work while I play around. And I’d like to spend time with you, too.”

“You see me all the time,” Minseok dismisses. “Be with them. They missed you.”

“I’d like you to know them, too,” Jongdae insists. “I’d like those I love to get to love each other, too.”

Minseok’s stomach seems to writhe inside him. “But, Dae. They’re  _ your _ family. There’s no need for me to interfere.”

“You’re not interfering.”

“I feel like an intruder. Dregs have no families.”

“You’ve one now,” Jongdae states firmly. “I care not that Snow Walkers never marry. They’re your kin.”

Minseok frowns but accepts Jongdae’s kiss. He loves Jongdae, always will, but while he enjoys company when he can get it, he’s not at all sure about this family business. Families seem to have expectations. Minseok’s not at all sure he can live up to anyone’s idea of a good match for their loved one. Especially when he’s back to his duties, absent for up to a month before spending a pair of days in Dominari. That’s not truly a relationship at all, hence why Walkers never marry.

He’s meant to be concerned only with the dead and only peripherally involved with the living. He’s broken that by falling for Dae in the first place, but it seems like a minor fault to have a lover waiting for him at the final destination of the silenced. A whole family seems like a condemnation, like he’s betraying his duties even if he still completes them without spending any more time at Dominari’s lychrow than he had before.

“You needn’t be so concerned,” Jongdae chuckles against his lips. “The thing about love is that all you ever have to do is accept it. Nothing is required of you in return. There’s no need for this furrow between your lovely brows.”

Jongdae presses a kiss to the mentioned furrow, and Minseok tries to school his face into something less notice-worthy. 

He survives dinner with Jongdae’s family, manages to hold up his end of the conversation, smile back, joke with Jongdae’s sister. It’d not felt this hard at any of the other tables he’d eaten at over the last months. It’d not felt this awkward even when the High Cantor of the Hide had evidently been attempting to seduce him. 

Jongdae’s family is nice, polite but playful like Sejeong and Sehun or Meokmul and Huchu. It should be just as easy to relax, enjoy the company and the food, seal not ending up on his menu very often. It’s served with the blubber, an important source of vitamins in the absence of any berries or any plants at all aside from the marine algae used as seasoning. It’s good, and everyone’s nice, particularly nice to him, like they already adore him simply because he’d accompanied their family member back and forth through the bleak.

Minseok’s incredibly relieved when it’s finally over.

Jongdae finds him sitting near the sandbar that stretches back to shore, half-hoping for a glimpse of Tan even though he knows she’s probably further inland, having a lovely time doing all of her cat things. He makes no objection when Jongdae sits beside him. In fact, he lets himself scoot closer, lean his head on Jongdae’s shoulder.

“I’d like to show you something,” Jongdae says, causing Minseok to lift his head. Jongdae removes his coat and squirms within his jumper, eventually lifting half of it up to expose his shoulder. There’s a piece of thin suede stuck to it, almost like a bandage, and Minseok’s more than a little concerned as Jongdae peels it away.

Then he simply stares.

Minseok’s name is written on Jongdae’s shoulder, a simple snowflake separating the two syllables.

“What? Why?”

“Because I love you.  _ You, _ Minseok. Not the Stave. Not the Snow Walker. Not for prophecy or out of gratitude for how well you always look after me. Not because we’re alone together for long stretches of time, not because we share a bed, not because of your handsome face or beautiful body. I love you not just because you always choose life, but because you see each day as a gift rather than a given, because you’re gentle and generous, because your first instinct is always to take good care of others even though no one took good care of you. There’s something so pure about you, like new-fallen snow, soft and beautiful. I’m forever in awe, forever in love, and I wished to have a permanent reminder of all that you are, part of my body forever just as you’re forever in my heart.”

Minseok blinks. “Permanent?”

Jongdae nods. “It’s a tattoo, Seok.”

Minseok has seen a few people before with lines drawn over their skin, but he’d not paid much attention, not truly thought about the marks being permanent. But now Jongdae has somehow written Minseok’s name into his skin, something that’ll not wash away, with a snowflake not because Minseok’s a Snow Walker but because Jongdae thinks he’s  _ pure. _

That word would never come to mind if Minseok were asked to describe himself.

Then again, few words would come to mind if he were asked to describe himself, unlike the scrolls full of words he could provide if asked to describe Jongdae.

Does this mean it’s the same for Dae? That he sees Minseok the way Minseok sees him? That… seems not… 

“Put your clothes back on before you freeze,” Minseok says almost absently, head still swirling with strange new thoughts, ideas, perspectives. His belly feels like he’s looking over the edge of the belltower in Dorus.

Jongdae laughs but obeys, sticking the suede back over shiny, reddened skin with those startling black lines. Then he squirms back into his sweater properly, puts on his coat, and smiles at Minseok with soft eyes when he steps forward automatically to do up the buttons for him.

“Are you upset?” Jongdae asks.

“I’m… overwhelmed,” Minseok decides.

With a soft chuckle, Jongdae pulls him close. Minseok’s arms slide around him like that’s the reason he has them. They stand there for a while, heads on each other’s shoulders, breathing in unison, icy waves tinkling against the shore beside them, as Minseok tries to reconcile what he knows with how he feels.

⁽𒀭❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

It feels like Jongdae has only just closed his eyes when Jihyo is shaking him, poking his ribs in spots only a sibling knows to be the most squirm-inducing places. Minseok grunts when Jongdae convulses beneath him, opening heavy lids to slide his gaze over the disturbers of his rest.

“You should probably come, too, Walker Min,” Jihyo whispers. “Yixing and Dad need all the help they can get.”

Still with no idea what exactly is needed, Jongdae starts dressing by feel, eyes uncooperative but his family’s apparent need sufficient reason to drag himself from sleep without further questions. Minseok does the same, of course, not one to let Jongdae face anything alone.

“It’s Goeun,” Jihyo says when they’re crunching across the snowy gravel toward the bathing shelter. “The baby’s coming and it’s not going well.”

“I know nothing about babies,” Jongdae says, heart racing already.

“Yixing does,” Jihyo assures him. “But he needs help maintaining the shanty. It’s taking too much out of him.”

“The shanty?”

“Yeah—it’s amazing. He uses no actual words, just babbles the same four notes in the same rhythm as a steady heartbeat, and it pulls all nearby pulses into the same rhythm, sharing any pain or injury experienced by one among all within earshot. It helps the person heal so quickly, you can see it happening. We’d have all gotten infections from cuts and scrapes we’re unable to keep properly clean and covered out here—we’d have been done for many times over without it. He’s taught everyone who can hold a tune—the more voices that join in, the easier it is for everyone.”

“Wow. How come I never knew the Resonance could do stuff like this?”

Jihyo lifts a brow. “ChenChen, we both learned the same history and hymns—did you not pay attention?”

“I did pay attention,” Jongdae insists. “I just… never thought it was actually real instead of just legends.”

Jihyo rolls her eyes, then shoves him toward the leather flap doing a terrible job of blocking a woman’s jagged cries. “Pay attention now,” she commands. “It’ll hurt but suck it up—life’s worth a bit of pain.”

Mouth set firmly, Jongdae automatically reaches for Minseok’s hand, only to find him hanging back.

“I’d rather avoid upsetting her more,” he explains softly. “Make her worry for her baby’s soul—or her own.”

“Those’re dumb superstitions,” Jongdae dismisses.

“But beliefs have power of their own,” Jihyo states. “You go inside and help Yixing and Dad. I’ll stay out here with Minseok—we can still help from outside, and this way Goeun will have no reason for extra worry.”

Jihyo prods him again and Jongdae lifts the flap, far more uneasy about enduring painful assistance without his sturdy, unflappable love at his side. Still, if Jongdae can possibly help, he absolutely must. So he ducks beneath the flap with a bracing breath, grateful for the cool air in his lungs as he enters a world of pain and steam.

“What can I do?” Jongdae asks immediately, going to where his father crouches by the laboring mother’s shoulders. 

She’s half-submerged in the warm water of the spring, braced by a man cradling her torso in his lap and holding the hands of two women. She’s draped with a sodden sealskin but Jongdae can still see her abdomen ripple as she groans, part of him fascinated at the contraction process even as he winces in sympathy.

“Just follow the melody and tempo, words are unimportant. Like this.” 

His father sings a stream of syllables, a fluid wave of sound that blends with the other voices in the shelter. Jongdae mimics the notes, softly at first, having learned well that too much strength can have devastating consequences and already having been warned that pain is part of the process. And indeed pain rolls over him, centered in his abdomen in a way that makes him vaguely queasy, his body unable to accept that such sensation in that location is compatible with staying alive.

Jongdae sinks to his knees before he sings the shanty out again. If this is what it feels like to give birth, even if he’s only experiencing an echo of the mother’s pain, Jongdae’s very, very grateful to have been born a man. Still, women never become pregnant on their own, so on behalf of his gender, Jongdae sings with more gusto, trying to find the maximum amount of her pain he can possibly stomach and still be able to sing the shanty effectively.

Each one of her shattered breaths inspires Jongdae to take more, so he slumps against a wall, telling himself his abdomen’s not actually tearing itself apart, that he’ll be fine, that the pain is temporary, that everything he feels is that much less for Goeun. He can hear Minseok shout outside, but it’s a noise of surprise, curiosity, not distress, so he ignores it. He also ignores the way blue light seems to build and recede behind his closed lids, ignores the rapid speech of his father and the measured responses from Yixing, ignores everything besides the way the squeezing sharpness of the pain rolls through him with every wave of the shanty he produces.

He barely registers that his voice is the only one still singing. He barely registers the sound of a baby’s wail. He just sits there and sings the same four notes in the same rock-steady rhythm until his sister’s cool hands on his sweating face interrupt him and his eyes flutter open.

“You did it, DaeDae,” she breathes, eyes wet. “You must truly be the Spark of Life. Bells, that was incredible.”

Jongdae blinks at her, then leans over to violently and repeatedly empty his stomach.

⁽𒀭❨ⵔ❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

“He truly will be all right,” Yixing promises Minseok. “He took on a lot, but it was a shared burden. He’d not have been at risk for harming himself unless he’d truly tried to shanty away a life-threatening trauma alone. You needn’t fret over him so much.”

“I’m his Stave,” Minseok says, sitting cross-legged beside Jongdae and taking up his hand. “His welfare’s my responsibility.”

Jongdae’s sleeping deeply enough that he fails to react when Minseok twines their fingers together. Minseok would rather twine their whole bodies together, but that seems inappropriate to do in what might as well be public, given the large number of people crowded into their sleeping shelter.

“Such devotion,” Jihyo huffs. “But pretend not that it’s all for duty—anyone with eyes can see you adore him.”

“Of course I do. How could I not?”

“He is rather cute, I guess,” Jihyo acknowledges. “But he’s also whiny and rather oblivious and his dumb little feet are almost smaller than mine and—wow, that’s a scary face.”

Minseok tries to restore his expression to neutrality, reminding himself that he’s seen several examples of siblings that bicker and pick on each other while sharing a deep, loving bond. Jongdae shares a connection with his family deeper than the one Minseok clings to, he has no right to chastize Jihyo for her teasing words, especially since Jongdae’s not even aware of them at the moment.

“JiJi, at least wait to harass your brother until he’s awake to defend himself,” their father admonishes, amusement plain in his voice. “We’re all very impressed and grateful, but perhaps we should let the Clef’s Stave watch over him for a bit in seclusion. We’ve all had a long night and could use some rest ourselves.”

There’s a bit of murmuring from the clump of people craning their necks to see Jongdae lying among their sleeping furs, but they do all shuffle away. Yixing gives Minseok’s shoulder a pat. “I’d not have let our Spark endanger himself, even to save another’s life. He only needs rest.”

Minseok nods, managing something like a smile for the healer before dropping his gaze again to Jongdae’s chest. He accepts the dry oil-tanned suede Jihyo hands him, rubbing it over his still-damp hair with his free hand as she tugs the flap half-closed behind her.

As soon as he’s soaked out enough of the moisture to ensure he’ll not dampen the bedding they share, Minseok scoots down beside Jongdae, holding him close enough to feel his deep, even breathing without having to watch his chest rise and fall. He tucks the reason for his wetness into Jongdae’s hand, curling his fingers around the sky blue stone and resting the loose fist on Jongdae’s chest.

The whole hot spring had seemed to glow as Jongdae sang inside the bathing shelter, gently at first but then lighting up the night and drawing a curious crowd. It’d pulsed in unison with Jongdae’s shanty, and Minseok had known they’d found their objective.

Unwilling to dampen his clothing when the drying of it may delay their departure, Minseok had stripped down before wading out into the warm water, uncaring of witnesses. He’d had to dive repeatedly to find it, raking his fingers through the fine gravel at the bottom of the spring until a larger, sharper stone had been strained into his hand. He’d been a little unsure after that, not wishing to merely put his clothes back on while soaking wet, but Jihyo had called his name, holding out a large oil-tanned sueded sheepskin at the edge of the pool. So he’d gone to her, smiling at her closed eyes as he’d emerged from the water and wrapped the soft, absorbant leather around his waist.

“You’re both the same kind of noble idiot,” she’d huffed, then had disappeared into the bathing hut when an infant’s cry had lit up the night in a whole new way.

Minseok had rubbed himself dry and dressed while he waited, impatient to show Jongdae their success but unwilling to upset the new mother or her family. But when Jongdae had exited the bathing shelter, it’d been stumbling, half in Yixing’s arms, limp as the now-sodden suede in Minseok’s hand, whimpering like a newborn tundra kit.

He’s sure the healer had been talking to him the entire time, but Minseok failed to hear a word of it until he’d had the weakly-whining Jongdae in his own arms, assured himself that he was still breathing, that his heart still beat. He’d ignored the faint assertions from Jongdae that he could walk on his own, had been the one to carry Jongdae to their furs, like a winter wolf retreating to its den to lick its wounds, not quite snarling at anyone who tried to touch Jongdae but absolutely feeling like doing so.

The Spark belongs to Elyxion. Jongdae belongs to his family. But sweet, selfless Chenny belongs to Minseok, too. And Minseok will be the one to hold him until he belongs to himself again.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Waking up tangled in Minseok is always the coziest sort of pleasure. Of course Minseok’s gazing at Jongdae, awake first once again. But it’s new for there to be a furrow in his brow, and for the furrow to ease as soon as Jongdae blinks him into proper focus.

And it’s new for the good-morning kiss to be quite so fervent.

“You all right?” he asks as Minseok releases his lip from the grip of his teeth.

“Me?” Minseok scoffs. “I’m not the one who tried to personally birth a child and then slept for an entire day.”

Jongdae blinks, abdomen twinging at the returning memory. “Are they all right?”

Minseok rolls his eyes. “You’re such an uncooperative charge. They’re fine—a healthy baby girl they’re calling Lee and her twin brother they’re calling Woo. I’m not even going to tell you that neither of them would’ve made it if you’d not shouldered enough of their trauma yourself so that Yixing could reach inside and untangle them from their cords and each other.”

“It was worth it,” Jongdae smiles. “But bells, it was truly no fun.” He yawns, stretching his legs until they quiver against Minseok’s. “Give me a minute, then we can find some food and look for the stone.”

“Or you could open your right hand,” Minseok huffs, tapping fingers against the back of it.

There is indeed something hard in Jongdae’s fist, and he shifts it to his fingers, holding it up to catch the gentle light of the blue dawn slipping past the door flap.

“It was in the hot spring, and it lit up when you sang, of course. So I fished it out while you were being a self-sacrificing worry to your poor undeserving Stave.”

“I’m sorry you worried,” Jongdae murmurs, turning his face from the stone in his hand to kiss Minseok. “I’m not sorry I did it.”

“Of course you’re not.”

“I’m glad you found the stone. I’m not actually feeling great about a bunch of crouching and bending and searching. My belly muscles are rather sore—childbirth truly takes a toll.”

“So does trying to turn your stomach inside out until you almost pass out,” Minseok grumbles. “You sure you’re ready to eat?”

“Yeah. I feel like I’ve not eaten in days—oh.” If he’d thrown up everything in his stomach and then slept for a day, he supposes that’s about right.

Minseok shakes his head with a fond little huff, then squeezes Jongdae tight before releasing him and sitting up. “Let’s go feed the hero.”

“Hey, you got to be the hero in Dorus. It was my turn.”

The walrus hide flap twitches over the doorway, fanning more light over them. “You boys gonna argue about who’s more heroic or are you gonna come out here and eat? Goeun’s family went out special to catch fresh fish for you, so hurry up so I can have some, too.”

“I see how you are,” Jongdae laughs as he sits up. “We’ll be right there, sister dear.”

“You’d better be.”

Minseok’s wearing a soft, fond smile when Jongdae turns to him. “Seokkie,” he murmurs. “I love you. Sorry for scaring you. Again.”

“You’d better be,” Minseok echoes Jihyo’s tone. “But I love you, too, so I forgive you. Again.”

Hating the smudges below Minseok’s eyes that betray his lack of sleep, Jongdae nuzzles and kisses him between pulling on each piece of clothing until he’s huffing in exasperation, smile not quite as carefree as it’d been in Sehun’s gustrunner but still a far cry from the worried frown that makes Jongdae’s chest squeeze with guilt. 

When all this is over, Jongdae will find a way to get his Seok to simply relax for at least a week, personally pampering him as much as he’ll tolerate. Sure, the silenced await their escorts, but surely there are still enough Snow Walkers in Elyxion that this one, Jongdae’s own Walker, can delay his return to duty for a little while.

“Stop kissing and hurry up!” Jihyo shouts through the walrus hide.

“We must hurry and save the world so my sister once again has her own guys to kiss,” Jongdae murmurs against Minseok’s lips.

“I heard that!”

“Stop antagonizing your sister,” Minseok chides, pulling away and heading for the door. “She wiped all the puke off your face after you collapsed into your own puddle of sick.”

Jongdae winces. “I’m fine not remembering that part.”

“I can describe it in great detail,” Jihyo says, hands on her hips as Jongdae ducks through the doorway. “But later—I’m not ruining my own appetite, and there’s seal steaks to go with the fresh fish.”

She grabs Jongdae’s arm and tugs him toward the communal eating area. Laughing, Jongdae turns to catch Minseok’s hand to pull him along, bright blue stone clasped between their palms. 

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

“So, Dad,” Jongdae says, narrowing his eyes at his father across the flat rock serving as their table. “Why’d you not tell me about all this prophecy stuff, teach me how to sing fire or any of this? Why’d you only drill me on hymns and make me rub oil into the bells until my arms were about to fall off?”

“Because I was only sure in my own heart that you were meant to be Elyxion’s Great Bell. It felt like blasphemy to say it out loud, to actually train you for it directly, to assume you’d be the one to whom the prophecy fell instead of your son or some other son in some other town. And how would that have sounded? If I’d have told you my suspicions, told you someday you’d survive great sorrow to save us all, how would you have reacted?”

Jongdae raises a brow.

His father laughs. “Exactly. Children always think their parents are a little too much, and you resisted as it was. You’d have skived off even more if you thought your crazy dad was working you too hard because he expected you to be some sort of legendary hero.”

“But you did, of course,” Jongdae accuses, "expect me to be a hero.”

“I did. And you are. And you’re doing great,” his father preens. “I obviously trained you perfectly.”

Minseok has to smother a laugh. Seeing Jongdae interact with his family sheds so much light on his personality, the way he whines to get his own way even before Minseok objects, the way he’d always sided with Huchu “against” her big sister. He’s so much more alive surrounded by his family, even if that family is eking out a life on a pile of rocks that barely protrudes from the surrounding sea.

“If you’re so perfect, then how do I finish this?” Jongdae asks. “What do I do with all these stones, besides collect them into the fanciest Soundbow ever?”

The tinsmith smiles from a stone nearby, not even looking up from where he’s curled over the neckpiece in question. He’d had a pair of needle-nose pliers in his pocket on the night the temple fell, shoved there in his haste to close up his shop before the service started at sundown. He’s using them along with a carefully-chosen stone to coax the filigree into embracing the sky blue stone along with the rest.

“You know the prophecy as well as I do, my son.”

“That’s such a fishy answer,” Jongdae whines. “I'm sure you know exactly what I’m meant to do.”

“I’ve a few ideas.”

“Well, spit them out. This is no school lesson where figuring it out is half the point. This is something that I get one shot at, and if I screw it up—”

Jongdae looks down at his meal and Minseok rests a hand on his knee.

“You’ll not screw it up, Chenny,” he murmurs. “You’re meant to do this. You’re meant to succeed. So you will.”

“If I do, it’ll be because you were there to tell me I could,” Jongdae huffs, giving him a watery glance.

“And because of course your father will share the wisdom of his considered theories,” Minseok adds, looking across the stone at the man in question. “Is a father not meant to guide his son?”

Jongdae’s father winces a little. “Of course I’m going to tell him—that icy glare takes all the fun out of teasing you, DaeDae.”

“It’s terrifying,” Jihyo says. “Say nothing negative about our ChenChen where Walker Minseok can hear you.”

“And never even think about stepping between them if Jongdae’s unwell,” Yixing adds. “I thought he was going to snarl at me or something when I tried to suggest he leave Jongdae with me to recover from his shanty ordeal.”

Minseok’s cheeks heat, but he keeps his chin lifted. “I know you’re his family and truly wish him no ill. But I’m Jongdae’s warden. I’ll not apologize for looking after my charge.”

“No apology necessary, Walker Minseok,” Jongdae’s father says with a smile. “It’s heartening to know that my son’s not alone in this task, and that the one beside him is so steadfast and fierce.”

“Minseok’s the best escort the Resonance could’ve possibly provided,” Jongdae agrees. “One of the many reasons I love him.”

“Love you, too,” Minseok murmurs, dropping his gaze to his meal and trying to focus more on eating than on being rude to the family Jongdae adores. He’ll not apologize, but he’d do well not to antagonize them, either. Had Jongdae not given him a whole speech about liking for them to love each other? Minseok winces a little around his mouthful of fish. So far, he’s not been all that loveable, but then again, that seems rather expected for someone raised in the harshness of the bleak.

Yixing laughs, a sound so joyous that it makes Minseok’s lips tug into a smile without his permission. “The pair of you are perfectly matched,” he declares. “Strong against the world, weak for each other.”

“See how gross they are?” Jihyo whines. “Now you know what it’s like for me to have to watch you and Dad all the time.”

Suddenly everyone’s meal seems interesting. “We, ah,” Jongdae’s father begins. “Yixing and I… are colleagues.”

“Dad, I’ve been here for less than a week and I was asleep for one of those days and even  _ I _ can tell you’re mooning over each other.”

“I am not. I’m either married or in mourning, and in either case, mooning is not a behavior becoming of a Grand High Cantor.”

Jongdae rolls his eyes. “Neither is falsehood,” he states. “For what it’s worth, I’m fine with it, I guess. I mean, it makes me a little uncomfortable, but Yixing seems like a decent guy. I’ll not begrudge you comfort or happiness. So I’ll get used to the idea of a… stepdad or whatever.”

“I’m going to call him Papa Doc,” Jihyo announces. “It rolls off the tongue well.”

Jongdae grins at his sister. “Works for me. Papa Doc it is.”

“Do I get any sort of say in this?”

“Not one we’re actually going to listen to,” Jihyo tells him sweetly.

Yixing looks at their father for help, but the High Cantor only shrugs.

“Parenting is all about picking your battles,” he informs Yixing. “They’re fine with us eventually being an ‘us.’ I’d be inclined to let this one go.”

“Fine,” Yixing huffs. 

Jihyo and Jongdae look at each other and start snickering, making Minseok only mildly jealous of that unspoken sibling communication. He has a deep connection with Jongdae, too. They also bicker together but immediately team up against an outside threat. They also sometimes communicate without words (but with hands and mouths and shuddering sighs). They also love each other, not the deep, unbreakable love of a family but still something beautiful and strong even if it’s new and feels a bit fragile.

And even though he’s not precisely comfortable with the familial teasing that Jongdae’s father and sister seem to wish to direct Minseok’s way, the fact that they do it, that they treat him like he’s already part of their family, makes Minseok feel more and more that Jongdae’s right.

Perhaps, oh, perhaps, when all of this is over. Perhaps Minseok will still have a place at Jongdae’s side. In Jongdae’s heart. 

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

“I had a whole scroll of possible interpretations,” Jongdae’s father tells him the next day, both of them squatting over an out of the way patch of snow. “Of course I failed to carry it around with me constantly, so it’s still in what’s left of the Temple of the Tongues. But your mother and I would discuss it sometimes when neither of us could sleep, in summer when the sun was still streaming through the windows late into the night.”

Jongdae nods. Jongdeok preferred to send the silenced to the dance when it was dark, clouds of ash obscured by the night and the song of the stars rippling overhead like a lure. So sometimes he and Jongdae would lay in their beds across the room from each other and talk about everything and nothing until Jongdae fell asleep and it was dark enough for Jongdeok to go to work.

“So I about have it memorized at this point,” his father tells him with a sheepish little smile. “I know it’s weird to obsess over something like that, especially given that I believed you to be central to all of it. And it was so hard, Dae. So hard not to blurt it all out at you, especially when you’d question the need for so much training. I could never say, ‘You need to be pitch-perfect because one day you’ll need to call on the Resonance to save all of Elyxion’ to a six-year-old. Or even a sixteen-year-old. You’ve always been very rational and concrete—you had faith, sure, but because you could feel it. The way you closed your eyes when you sang true and Resonant in the temple, your eyebrows flicking up in the middle—I’ve always been so proud of you, my son.”

Jongdae’s cheeks heat. He draws a doodle of a spiral in the snow with a gloved finger.

“Anyway. I knew telling you the whole truth would fail to make you actually believe it. So I merely gushed over you to your very indulgent mother, who’d gently remind me that I had three children and all of their futures were important. And I’d agree, because of course I love all three of you, but I’d hoped—” 

Jongdae’s father sighs. “I’d always thought your brother would have a part to play. It was clear early on that he’d not be the Great Bell, but he was my Virtuous Bell, our Jongdeok, always doing his part, willing to embrace a duty few can stomach, content to serve. There are some parts of the prophecy that I thought mentioned him, like ‘death’s deliverance’ since he released their spirits to join the dance. He’s the one I taught to sing fire, the healing shanty, to make light Resonate within a perfect sphere of thrice-blessed glass. I thought he’d be at your side, Dae, and I’d been holding out hope that…” 

He gives Jongdae a watery smile. “Well. I’m glad you’ve Minseok. He truly seems meant for you, even if he’s not at all what I expected.”

“He’s not at all what I expected, that’s for sure,” Jongdae huffs. “He’s just so stalwart, Dad. Like, giving up’s not a thing he knows how to do. I’d have never made it without him. And while I loved Jongdeok, he was never the type to tromp around outside through the snow unless he had to. I miss him, but he could’ve never led me through the bleak.”

His father nods. “I see that now. But it made it easier for me to sit here and wait. I feel so helpless, but everyone looks to me to lead them. I only wished to lead them in worship, not in survival. Thank the Resonance for Yixing. I’m glad you’re willing to give him a chance when this is all over.”

“Hey, you accepted my surprise lover, of course I’m going to accept yours.”

As he’d hoped, this brings a smile to his father’s lips. “Yeah. Jihyo’s going to smother us all in our sleep.”

Jongdae snorts. “I’ll hurry up and set everything right so she can find her own company and let the rest of us live.”

“Please do,” his father chuckles. “You’re planning to go to Aeolis next?”

Jongdae nods.

“And then what?”

“Then I go home. And make a stand for the dead where ‘Life once burned.’ Whatever that means.”

“You’re not going to Locris?”

Jongdae shakes his head. “Uncle Baekhyun had thought the Great Bell would have to go ‘from Ring to Ring,’ to each of the original bells, from the Ancestors’ ships. But the prophecy was written before the Locris bell had been moved from Dominari, so would all the stones not have been hidden before Locris was even an idea, much less a settlement? It’s hardly a settlement, anyway—there’s no town around the temple, only the retired Walkers that support the current batch as they’re trained. They’ve no full ring of bells, either, only the one the un-settlement is named for.”

“There’s not even one bell in Gyun. Never has been. But a stone was here nonetheless.”

Jongdae traces an opposing spiral in the snow. “But it’s a ring with the hot spring in the middle, that’s it’s name, and this old Zitao seemed to like wordplay. I’d no idea anyone would be here, but I grieved when you fell into the dark—you were swallowed—and now here you are, biding on a ring. And pain’s icy grip on my heart has indeed melted a bit, so.”

His father laughs. “It’s easy to draw parallels in hindsight, of course. So you’re going to Aeolis based on the word ‘seen’ in that line about melting?”

Jongdae nods. “Once we decided that Blood and Hide in the first line of the third stanza could refer to the temples, then it was easy to find Bones in the next line. And in the following two lines, there are two other more obscure references, but Swallowed seemed pretty clear and so did Seen, especially with the calligraphy of the original version highlighting it a bit. Ring was highlighted, too, so we made our best guess there, but there’s nothing accented at all in the following line. It just talks about the shadows advancing, and that I’m meant to stop it, I guess.”

He shrugs. “Besides, it seems clear that we’re collecting a spectrum of stones, and that ends with purple. It seems logical that we’ll find a purple stone in Aeolis after finding a blue one here. And that should be it, right?”

His father hums in thought. “Hard to say. The spectrum is split from plain light into the colors when it passes through clear things, like mist or ice. So there’s a possibility for a clear stone—the stars are sung aglow with a  _ clear _ aubade. But I’d no idea where it might be except in the Grand Temple, though I know of no faceted stones in Dominari at all, clear or otherwise. All stones of that kind are those the Ancestors originally had—they’re not one of the Gifts of the Gullet. They’re very rare, and aside from the red one in Chanyeol’s ring, I’d never seen one before at all.”

“Well. In the absence of any better suggestion, I’ll head to Dominari after Aeolis. Perhaps having all six stones will Resonate in a way that’ll finally let me sing enough fire to fight back the shadows and relight the Tongues.”

His father winces. “Please use care in that, my boy. There’s a scroll that Baekhyun and I found in the archives once that was said to be a copy of a copy of a copy and so on of one of the original logs from the ships. And it’s said to be written by one of the ancestors with some arcane knowledge of different types of fire, and she believed that the Tongues were sustained by some type of invisible, airy fuel that made them blue instead of yellowish like the flames of lamps or candles.”

“I thought they were blue because they were an echo of the sea.”

“They’re an echo of the sea, but the color has to do with something else, I think. Even when candles were lit directly from the Tongues, the flame always was yellowish once it caught the wick, and it went yellowish when the silenced were fed to the Tongues, too. This ancestor had a special name for this blue-burning fuel she thought came from beneath the earth, and she noted that it can be toxic to inhale if it’s not burned, and that it leaking could be bad, causing flames or explosions where they’re not expected.”

“Great. So if there’s any of this fuel even left, it’s going to kill me if I try to relight the Tongues.”

“You’re not allowed to die,” Jongdae’s father tells him seriously. “‘To shadow Spark shall not succumb,’ so you promise me, Kim Jongdae. Promise me right now that you’ll come back to me, my son.”

“I’ll certainly do everything I can to live,” Jongdae says, voice just as serious. “And Minseok has made it his personal mission to ensure my survival, and I’ve every faith that he’ll live up to that task.”

“Good lads,” his father nods. “This family has seen enough of death.”

“If I succeed, we’ll see even more,” Jongdae huffs. “So many silenced are waiting to be sent to the dance, and without Jongdeok, that duty falls to me.”

“Your duty is to be the Tenor,” his father counters. “You and I will see to the silenced together at first, but we’ll train someone to take up your brother’s duties. Perhaps Sanghyuk or Wonsik—either of them would have the strength required.”

Jongdae nods, ashamed to be a little relieved. He’s traveled with a Snow Walker for months now, but that’s failed to make him any more comfortable with the silenced. 

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

As usual, Minseok’s relieved to be preparing to return to the bleak. Gyun shelters a fraction of those in the towns they’d previously searched, but Minseok’s not sure he’ll ever be comfortable around loud groups of people. There were more in the temple at Locris, but they were, as the temple’s name implied, a rather quiet bunch. Loud noise and rapid movement, children running and yelling as they play, adults talking and laughing and joking are all good things, the things Jongdae’s working so hard to save. But they’re things that Minseok’s not sorry to be leaving behind for another few weeks as they cross the bleak to the vast territory of the Aeolians.

Jongdae and his family and even Yixing are teary as they say their goodbyes, hugging Minseok just as tightly as they had Jongdae, if not for as long an embrace. Goeun and her family are there, twins wrapped well in the swaddlers knit from their grandfather’s sweater, wrapping braided leather bracelets around Jongdae’s wrists and even around Minseok’s. The whole group of survivors turns out to see them off, but Minseok’s polite smile fails to become a real one until he hears an irritated yowl from the other end of the sandbar.

A ripple of surprise sounds through the crowd as Minseok turns around, the silhouette of his companion barely discernible atop a large boulder on the far shore.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Minseok murmurs, knowing it’s way too far to shout and that Tan will be just as impatient whether she hears his voice or not.

“Walker Minseok, are you dallying with my brother when you already have yourself a nagging spouse?” Jihyo’s hands are on her hips but her scowl is clearly false.

“I’d never be untrue to my Chenny,” Minseok asserts with a smile. “Tan’s more like a much loved, greatly helpful, but rather bossy sibling.”

“Ah, I know just what that’s like,” Jongdae says, exactly as Minseok had hoped.

Jihyo splutters and punches both of them, but she’s careful to avoid Jongdae’s recently-tattooed shoulder. She’s careful to avoid one of Minseok’s shoulders, too, and the two of them trade secret smiles as she hugs them one last time.

Tan’s calls get more frequent as her human gets closer and closer to her side of the shore, and the minute there’s no risk of salty seawater tainting her wide, fluffy paws she’s butting her head against them both. Unlike Jongdae’s helpful but bossy sibling, Minseok’s is unaware that one of his shoulders is rather tender, and he fails to hide his wince well enough to escape Jongdae’s notice.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not truly,” Minseok says, but Jongdae’s already prodding at the tender arm. Minseok hisses, trying to turn away, but Jongdae’s not stupid.

“Minseok, what did you do to your arm?”

“Nothing bad,” Minseok insists. “It’s truly fine.”

“Show me.”

“What?”

_ “Show me.” _

With a sigh, Minseok sets down his pack, then sheds his jacket and pulls off his sweater. The early morning air is chilly, but the look on Jongdae’s face warms Minseok more than the warmest clothing.

“You  _ are  _ a natural sneak,” Jongdae accuses. “When did you get this? Jihyo must've been in on this.”

“You were off discussing prophecy with your father. Your sister seemed to truly enjoy stabbing me repeatedly.”

“She’s a vicious little thing. But also rather moony—did you have her put a lightning bolt in the middle of my name because I’m the Spark?”

Minseok shakes his head. “To Elyxion, you’re the Spark. But to me, you’re so much more than that. You flashed into my life, lit up my heart, and left me burning for you.”

Jongdae’s face makes a bunch of shapes before he finally settles on upturned eyebrows that are echoed by his lips. “Seokkie. That’s the mooniest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“You loved it.”

“I did. And I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Minseok replies, pulling his clothes back on. “I’ll show you exactly how much when we stop for the night.”

“Not if I show you first.”

Minseok grins over at his beautiful, bold love. “I accept this challenge.”

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾


	7. False Note

# False࿄Note

Minseok’s cringing when the tower first comes into view before he even knows if it’s occupied or not. Jongdae’s going to ask about it, Minseok will answer honestly, and then Jongdae’s going to—

“What the clappers is that—spectrum, are those silenced?  _ Hanging upside down from a clapping scaffold?” _

There it is. That’s exactly the screech and appalled blinking above his scarf that Minseok was rueing even before it happened.

“The Aeolians believe death is a sort of rebirth, and infants are born head first,” he explains.

“But why are they  _ hanging there?” _

“Because there are wolves around.”

Jongdae lowers his brows at Minseok. “Seok, that’s not—what I  _ meant _ was, why are they dangling in the wind rather than lying with dignity in a proper sepulchre, and furthermore, why are they just at some random lychway crossing instead of in Aeolis?”

“It is in Aeolis.”

“Where’s the lychrow? Or even the lychgate?”

“There’s no lychgate.”

“Why not?”

“Same reason there’s no sepulchre—the Aeolians are nomadic. They’ve no permanent structures of any kind. When someone picks up these silenced, the Aeolians will take this tower with them the next time they pass this way. They’ll set it up again at the nearest lychway crossing when it’s needed next.”

Jongdae’s brows are as knit together as his scarf. “Minseok, I'm trying hard to be open minded about all the mind-blowing things we’ve seen and done since you dragged my ass out of Dominari the first time but seriously, what the actual bells? How do Walkers know when there’s silenced to be escorted? You just have to roam around Aeolis until you find one?”

“No,” Minseok chuckles. “Someone would see it as they escorted some other silenced. Then they’d either tell someone they passed coming the other direction, or pick it up themselves once they’d dropped their ward off. Anyone assigned to the districts surrounding Aeolis takes care of the nomads when needed.”

“That is…” Jongdae shakes his head. “Extreme.”

Minseok shrugs. “Their lifestyle is extreme. But, like everywhere else, they contribute greatly to Elyxion’s benefit. The reindeer they raise are essential.”

“I know,” Jongdae says. “And my sister loves all the wild Aeolian dyes. And I suppose it’s unreasonable for them to take a body all the way to some stationary point or just, like, carry them around with the herd until they pass their lychgate again, but. Still. It’s truly creepy to just hang them up like that.”

“The silenced seem to mind it far less than you do.”

Jongdae elbows him gently. “I know, I know. Death is a part of life and it ought not to bother me so much, I used to help my brother sometimes but it just. I think… I dislike the reminder. That it’ll happen to all of us. I’m not ready.”

Minseok nods, linking his elbow with his love. “That makes sense. Dregs are raised to understand that, had the Silent Heart not been there to take us in, we’d have been dead long ago, and there’s no guarantee we’ll not die tomorrow. The bleak is merciless, and so is the training—Even the grown recruits quickly learn that waking up each morning is a bonus, not a given. Of the three dozen dregs in the group I was raised with, only three of us became Walkers.”

“The rest worked at the temple instead?”

Minseok shakes his head. “The rest went to the dance. Walkers have no choice but to quickly make their peace with death. I seek it not, I seek to avoid it for as long as I possibly can, but every breath only prolongs the inevitable.”

“No,” Jongdae says. “You’re way too full of life to be that fatalistic. If I’m not allowed to die on your watch, you’re not allowed to die on mine.”

“Not if I can help it, anyway,” Minseok says, bumping shoulders with the bright-hearted boy he’d love to face forever with. 

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Slowly, the landscape on either side of the lychway melts from glacier to bedrock as they get closer to the northern coast. It’s no less cold, however, making Jongdae wonder why the bleak is suddenly less bleak.

The ground is flat and rocky, but compared to the blinding white of the glacier, this barren land seems anything but. It’s covered with lichens in all shades of green, yellow, and brown, sprinkled generously with clusters of tiny flowering plants in warm purple and deep blue-violet.

White still drifts across the scene, but it’s not blusters of snow. It’s knots of reindeer, mothers with young, white pelts stark against the colorful ground. Many of their noses are stained the same blue-violet as the darker flowers upon which they forage, making Jongdae smile.

“Well, that was easier than I feared,” Minseok says beside him, smile matching Jongdae’s own. “It must be the tail end of calving season—another day or two and they’d have moved on.”

“Thank the Resonance,” Jongdae says. He means it, too—it’s much easier to accept the swells and sighs in the melody of his life now that it’s been given partially back to him.

“Indeed,” Minseok agrees. He turns around to cradle Tan’s shaggy face in mittened hands and make squishy noises as he smooches his companion. “They’ll not appreciate you among their herds, Tannie. Keep your distance, my fierce friend.”

The tundra cat rumbles low in response, prompting Minseok to smile and kiss her again between her aurora-green eyes. She settles to the ground, kicking her back feet out and yawning in a way that’d be adorable if not for the fact that it shows off every one of her blade-sharp teeth, making her elongated upper fangs stab nearly horizontally for a heart-skipping moment.

“Good girl,” Minseok coos, giving her one last pat before turning to take Jongdae’s hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He hesitates a little, like he always does when they leave the lychway, but Jongdae squeezes his hand and earns himself a bashful smile.

The reindeer make wary way for them as they cross the mottled ground in search of the Aeolians themselves, but they must be near the herds. Just as every child learns that bells come from Yon, they all learn that reindeer are raised by the Aeolians, who wander the tundra seasonally with the herds, gathering lichens and flowers for perfume and dyes between training animals to be ridden or pull loads. Like the Dorians, they’re aided in this by scruffy little black and white herding dogs, and it’s the dogs who unsurprisingly find them first.

And, much like Mongryong, these dogs seem to resent the scent of Tan on the interlopers disturbing their herd.

There are three of them, a big male, a smaller one with one blue and one brown eye, and a mostly-white female who is clearly the ringleader of the trio. They surround Jongdae and Minseok, barking sharply until a low whistle cuts through the herd just ahead of a young man riding a big white buck. 

“Monggu! Jjanggu! Jjangah! What’ve you found?”

“Forgive us for disturbing your herd,” Jongdae says with a smile. “I’m Kim Jongdae, son of Kim Junmyeon, Grand High Cantor of the Tongues, and this is Snow Walker Minseok, my escort and my… Well, mine.”

“Jongin son of Jonghyun. Why is a Walker off his path? And with the Grand High Cantor’s son, no less?”

Explaining who he is and what he needs is still just as awkward as it always is, but at least this time he can say his father is alive and well and approves of what he’s doing. The Soundbow’s not visible beneath his scarf but he wears it proudly anyway, the weight of the skin-warmed metal empowering. And of course, Minseok, at his side, supportive as always, squeezing his hand during the difficult bits, gazing at him attentively in the way that always makes Jongdae feel truly treasured. So his smile is genuine as he asks for help locating whatever stone he’s meant to find among these nomads, even as he internally sighs at the vast area that he may have to search.

“That’s quite the tale. I’m sure our High Cantor would be very interested to hear it.” Jongin swings down from the snow-white buck. “This is Bear. He’ll carry both of you easy enough—just have care not to trip him with your staves.”

“That’s not necessary,” Jongdae tries to say. This “Bear” is just as intimidating to him as a real one, standing almost as tall as himself at the shoulder, fuzzy antlers still immature but no less dangerous-looking.

But Jongin’s already chirping to his dogs, who quickly cut another buck out of the herd and guide it over to him. He unloops a rope from Bear’s saddle, calms this new buck with soft words and gentle hands, and wraps the rope around its head in a mimic of the leather halter Bear is wearing.

“Need a hand up?” he calls to Jongdae upon noticing neither of them have moved.

“Uh. I’ve never… ridden one before?” Jongdae admits. “Nor has Minseok.”

“Oh. Well, Bear’s well trained. He’ll follow me, easy, so you needn’t even try to steer.” Jongin half-kneels at Bear’s side, offering his leather-covered thigh as a step. “Just have to hop on up and hold on. Bear’ll do the rest.”

Jongin’s smile is gorgeous, sweet and encouraging. Trading a glance with Minseok, Jongdae takes a calming breath and steps forward. His ascent to Bear’s back is less than graceful and involves a bit of muffled cursing, but eventually he’s astride the big animal. Minseok, of course, hops up behind him lithe as any cat. Jongdae would be more annoyed about this but for the strong arm soon wrapped snugly around his waist.

Jongin hands their staves up to Minseok, who holds them carefully together and out to one side a bit.

“Just put your feet in the stirrups and hold on to the pommel—that’s it.”

Then Jongin’s up on the other buck’s back, saddle-free, guiding the high-stepping mount around in a tight circle. As he comes past Bear’s flank, he reaches out and taps the animal on the rump, causing it to spring into motion.

And then they’re off, Bear’s nose at Jongin’s knee as they race across the tundra. It’s all Jongdae can do not to yelp.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Minseok fails to hide his grin as he feels Jongdae tense in his grasp. He briefly squeezes his love a bit tighter, feeling him relax along with his arm. And then he’s laughing, just as he’d done in the gustrunner, and Minseok closes his eyes to enjoy it. Walkers are never meant to ride, but Minseok could absolutely get used to hugging his Dae as they fly across Elyxion.

The herd parts before them, revealing bright shapes against the already-colorful ground. He smiles to recognize the same blue-violet that stains the noses of the herd, evidently also used to dye entire hides of once-white fur that form the sides of what look like dwellings.

They’re low, rounded structures that look to be made of staves curved into intersecting arcs, hides tied in place over these skeletons. And as they get closer it’s evident that skeletons are exactly what they are—reindeer bones fastened together to house their herders.

In the center of the grouping, there’s a taller structure, a scaffold of bones that holds aloft a ring of bells, smaller even than the ones in Dorus. The clapper of the largest is only knee-high from the ground, then the next largest is suspended above, and so on for the entire ring of seven, the handbell-sized treble at the very top.

Minseok had never thought about it before, truly, having only had indirect contact with the Aeolians before. But it makes sense that the nomads would bring their “temple” with them, allowing them to worship under the open sky among the creatures that sustain them and the rest of Elyxion. The Temple of the Meandering Eye is wherever the congregation happens to be. 

“Grandmother!” Jongin calls as they approach. “Nana, we’ve visitors.”

“Visitors?” A petite, handsome woman ducks out from one of the shelters, flipping a long, moon-white braid over her shoulder. “Nini, who’ve you brought to see us?”

Jongin reins to a stop and hops off his buck, turning to untie it from the makeshift halter. Bear stops when his usual rider does, and the little woman is immediately at the white buck’s side, taking the pair of staves and handing them to Jongin before reaching up to grip Minseok’s thigh in a surprisingly firm hold.

“Lean to the opposite side and swing your leg over the rump towards me—you’ll end up belly-down over the back and you can easily slide right onto your feet.”

Minseok figures she knows what she’s talking about, so he gives Jongdae a final squeeze before following the instructions. The bronzed grip on his thigh remains, keeping him from overbalancing as he swings himself around and down.

“Your turn,” she says to Jongdae when Minseok’s on the ground. 

Jongdae obeys, kicking free of the stirrups and following suit. Minseok gives in to the urge to reach up and catch Jongdae around the waist as he drops, squeezing him again before setting him down gently.

“Nicely done,” the woman says. “I’m Kwon Boa, and you must be the Clef and the Stave.”

“How do you know that?” Jongdae asks, hand slipping automatically into Minseok’s.

“The High Cantor of the Eye sees what the Resonance wills,” she says.

“You’re the Tenor?”

“Nonsense—I’m the Treble. The Tenor is the Low Cantor.”

“That… makes sense, actually,” Jongdae says, eyebrows kipping up with the corners of his mouth. “It’s an honor to meet you, High Cantor.”

“Considering you wear the Soundbow, let’s dispense with all that stiffness. You’ll call me Auntie, and I’ll call you…?”

“Jongdae. And Minseok,” Jongdae introduces. “Thank you for welcoming us.”

“Of course I welcome the fulfillment of the prophecy,” she says, waving dismissively. “Come, sit in an old woman’s yurt and tell her all about your adventures. Spread your sleeping furs out and be comfortable—you’re my personal guests for as long as need be.” 

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

The High Cantor’s yurt is as white on the inside as it is dark on the outside. The reindeer pelts that line the interior are turned fur-in, and with the entrance tied shut after the four of them, it’s plenty warm enough inside. At her nod, they strip off their outerwear, an act that feels somehow odd to do in a relatively open space rather than squirming out of it inside their bedroll and kicking it to the bottom to warm.

Prodding Jongin, the High Cantor gestures toward the ceiling, and the lanky young man adjusts the skins there to expose more than the utmost hub of the spokes, letting the long sunset bathe the inside of the shelter with bronze. The light only directly hits one wall, but the pale hides seem to multiply the light, making it easy to see everyone’s easy smiles.

“Now then, we’ll have lichen tea and a chat,” the High Cantor declares. “Jongdae, be a dear and light the tallow lamp, would you?”

She gestures at the usual soapstone lamp used for heating and cooking, striker stored neatly in the base. But of course Jongdae declines to use the striker, instead pointing a finger close to the wick and singing it gently alight.

“Very nice,” the High Cantor praises as Jongdae sits cross-legged on the sealskins Minseok has spread out for them. 

Minseok scoots close and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together over Jongdae’s knee. Jongin pours water from a ewer into a teapot and sets it over the lamp to heat as the High Cantor settles on her own knees, pulling a loose-knit shawl around her shoulders. She gestures for her grandson to take a seat beside her, then pins Jongdae with bright eyes.

“So. The Clef and Stave are redamant.”

Face warm, Jongdae nods. He’d asked his father long ago what the uncommon word meant when he’d first learned the hymn, satisfied at the time with his simple explanation. But ‘loving someone in return’ seems a lot more meaningful when not painted by the mind of a child into the musical clef giving its stave a hug.

“Excellent,” the High Cantor says. “And very cute—you’re an adorable pair.”

Her words make Minseok briefly hide his face against Jongdae’s shoulder, which is annoying because then Jongdae has nowhere to hide his own dopey smile. He settles for pressing a kiss against Minseok’s hair, uncaring that it’s been weeks since they’d been able to wash.

“Gross,” Jongin says, but his voice carries amusement rather than derision.

“Oh, hush—like I’m unaware of what you and that young Taemin get up to whenever you’ve a yurt to yourselves.”

“Nana!” Jongin whines, but the High Cantor looks rather smug that she’s flustered all three of them enough to hide their faces.

“Now then. I saw you coming ahead of a storm of shadows—what is it that you need to forestall the dark in this season of increasing light?”

“A stone,” Jongdae says, lifting his chin to expose the Soundbow. “One like these, to fit in one of the remaining voids.”

“Hmm. We’ve many colorful treasures in Aeolis, but stones are not usually among them. But I’ve seen the horizon, and you’ll stay awhile beneath the vast Aeolian sky. Do not fret—you’ve not much time, it’s true, but you’ve enough.”

The water is boiling, so the High Cantor pours it into stone bowls full of lichen, handing one to each of them.

“Resonance be with you,” she toasts.

“And also with you,” three voices respond in unison, making the young men shoot smiles at each other.

They all lift their bowls into the air, then cradle them close to their chests for the tea to steep along with their hearts.

“We’ll be breaking camp tomorrow,” the High Cantor says. “Jongin shall find you nice, gentle does to carry you—ones you can mount and dismount with your normal-length legs instead of that big white beast.”

“Bear’s the gentlest, though,” Jongin defends. “It’s not my fault I grew so tall.”

“No—it’s your father’s. You certainly never inherited those bones from  _ my _ side.”

“You still love me, though, Nana.”

“I do, because your heart’s as big as your wingspan. You’ll find them sweet, biddable mounts and teach them to ride properly, not simply toss them up there and tell them to hang on.”

Jongin’s face melts with shame. “Yes, Nana,” he says, then lifts his eyes to meet theirs. “I’m sorry—I was just excited. We get no strangers this time of year.”

“I understand,” Jongdae says with a smile. “And it was truly fun, even if it was also a bit terrifying.”

“Once you get to know them, they’re not scary at all. And I know just the mounts for you—it takes all morning to pack up, so we’ll have plenty of time to ride around a bit and get everyone comfortable.”

“Which you and Taemin shall take turns supervising—your long limbs are unexempt from helping to pack, either of you.”

“Yes, Nana.” 

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

It’s rare indeed that someone’s moving around of a morning before Minseok himself is awake, and for a bleary moment, Minseok assumes the gentle rustling sounds behind him are produced by his tundra cat, less prone to sleeping so close as the spring weather warms. But it’s still cold enough that he’d prefer Tan near, except he’d told her to keep her distance yesterday. And there’s a furry white roof over his head.

Minseok gently extricates himself from Jongdae’s tangled embrace and sits up, feeling an odd urge to cover himself even though he’s wearing his oxdown underthings, not even so much as a collarbone exposed.

“Good morrow, Minseok,” the High Cantor smiles at him, then nods at the kettle warming over the tallow lamp. “Tea?”

Face warm, Minseok nods, then ensures Jongdae’s tucked in well before pulling his clothes on and joining her by the lamp. She hands him a bowl of tea and he nods his thanks before sipping it, eyes closing at how nice it is to start his day with a warm drink.

“A man of few words, I see.”

Her low chuckle is friendly rather than derisive, but Minseok still gives her an apologetic smile.

“Sorry. Jongdae’s the first of my charges that has initiated any conversation, so I’m a bit out of practice.”

“It must be a very new experience for you.”

“Newer for Jongdae, I’d say.” Minseok smiles over at his still-sleeping love, nothing but a tangle of dark hair to be seen.

“But he has you to look after him so thoroughly.”

“I do my best.”

“I can see that.”

“What else do you see?” Minseok blurts, surprised at himself and more than a little afraid of her answer.

The High Cantor of the Meandering Eye watches Minseok over the rim of her bowl as she takes a long sip. “Did you know Seer Zitao was one of ours? One of the very first Aeolians.”

“I did not.” Though Minseok supposes it makes sense that the ancient seer may have passed his gifts down to his descendants.

The High Cantor nods. “My sight’s not as strong or specific as his, but I do dream sometimes of events or situations that have happened or that may yet happen. It’s sometimes hard to tell which are which, and dreams are often laced heavily with metaphor that can make them clear only in hindsight. But I have had flashes of you and your Clef.”

“Ah.”

“Do you truly wish for me to tell you what I’ve seen?”

Minseok shakes his head. “I'm anxious for our quest to succeed, but I’d rather believe it possible, believe it meant to be, than hear more prophecy that might cause me to lose heart. We must succeed, and so we shall. I’ll do everything I can to ensure it.”

The High Cantor laughs, soft and shimmering. “I needn’t be a seer to know for certain that last is true, at least.”

A moment later, Jongin raps at one of the bones framing the door of the yurt, poking his head in at his grandmother’s call.

“When you’re ready, honored guests, Taemin and I will be happy to introduce you to your mounts.”

Taemin turns out to be just as sweet and friendly as his lover, and the pair of them are super cute to watch as they tease each other and steal kisses behind the shoulders of reindeer not tall enough to actually conceal their activities. 

To Minseok’s delight, Jongdae’s laughingly tolerant of Minseok’s mimicry of their behavior. High Cantor Changmin and his lover, Instructor Yunho, had been the only other couple Minseok had spent much time around, and their affection was always much more low key. And Minseok likes that, too—the constant body contact, handholding, and soft smiles that he and his Dae have been sharing make his heart feel full to bursting, but Minseok’s discovering more and more that it’s fun to be playful with his love, to let himself be silly like he is when it’s only himself and Tan, throwing dignity aside for delight.

So they’re meant to be learning how to saddle and halter their assigned reindeer—a dark-faced doe called Stormy for Jongdae and a pale, flower-stained girl named Blizzard for Minseok—but instead each couple’s “hiding” from the other, the pair of reindeer happily nibbling lichen between them as Minseok nuzzles close to his love for kiss after sweet kiss.

Jongdae’s whining softly against Minseok’s mouth, always shy to be too openly affectionate in public. But Minseok’s already used to being judged on sight. Being seen kissing someone’s not going to make the average townsfolk shun him any more than they already do. And it’s not truly public, anyway. The reindeer are probably happy to avoid work for a few more minutes, and Jongin and Taemin certainly are.

“You’re not meant to be practicing riding  _ each other,” _ an amused female voice calls.

Startled, Jongdae pulls away, whine increasing at being caught out. A woman closer to Minseok’s age than to Jongin’s is pretending to glare at them from the back of a small mottled buck, amusement given away by the tiny smile on her lips and the twinkle in her eyes. She’s got Jongin’s dimpled cheek, so Minseok’s not surprised at all to hear the boy address her as “Sis.”

“Yes, yes, you’re both very cute couples, but that’s what empty yurts are for,” she says, cutting off her brother’s whine. “One of you stretched-out fools come with me and help take down the belltower, and the other one actually teach our guests some riding tips they can use in front of Nana.”

With a sigh, Jongin turns back to Taemin to play a quick game of stone-wool-scissors. It’s Taemin’s turn to whine when he loses, but he obediently swings up on Sunshine, his pale yellow buck, and trots off behind the laughing enforcer of the High Cantor’s wishes.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

“Sorry about that,” Jongin mumbles with a sheepish smile. “We, uh. Just started being a couple, and, well.”

“We know how that is,” Jongdae offers with his own bashful grin. “But it’ll not be fun to fall off one of these beasts, even these much more manageable-sized ladies, so we’d probably better actually get on with the lessons.”

“Of course. This one’s Stormy’s saddle—they’re shaped to match each animal’s body, so make sure you have the right one. See, this is Stormy’s symbol—lightning inside a cloud. And this is Blizzard’s snowflake inside a cloud. They’re sisters—their mother’s name is Cloudy, so all her offspring have that as part of their symbol. Blizzard’s young all have her snowflake, and Stormy’s baby has her lightning bolt.”

“Clever,” Jongdae says. “But, um. How do you tell which reindeer is which? I mean, there are a lot of all-white ones like Blizzard.”

“You get to know the ones you spend time with. But they also have tattoos inside their ears,” Jongin laughs, showing him Stormy’s. Sure enough, there’s a matching symbol picked out in tiny dots inside her left ear.

Minseok’s brow furrows. “Do they all have names?” he asks, looking around at the herd. There must be four or five hundred, not even counting the calves.

“Nah—we only track the bloodlines meant for working animals,” Jongin says. “The ones for slaughter we just keep a count of. They’re either friends or food,” he laughs. “We give no names to our food.”

“Ahh,” Minseok nods, picking up Blizzard’s saddle. “So, the taller end goes in front?”

“Yes, but first, we need to check their feet and make sure they’ve no stones between their toes or cuts that might make it painful for them to carry a rider.” Jongin bends over and picks up each of Bear’s massive cloven hooves, spreading them with his fingers to check for problems.

“Uh,” Jongdae says. “It’s just… that easy?”

“Not for every animal, but I told you—these girls are super docile. Just lean on them a little if they’ll not shift their weight, but they’ll probably not even stop grazing while you look.”

Minseok already has Blizzard’s foot in his hands, looking carefully at it while Jongin peers over his shoulder, pointing out a pebble for Minseok to flick away. Turning to Stormy, Jongdae pats her shoulder. “Good reindeer,” he murmurs, then runs his hands gently down her leg and tugs at her foot. 

To his relief, she shifts her weight and lets him pick it up, tendons clicking in her ankles as she does so. All the reindeer click when they walk, something Jongdae had never noticed in the busy towns but which is a vaguely unnerving background sound when surrounded by hundreds of the animals in the quiet of the tundra. 

“Good,” Jongin says when they (and he) have made sure all hooves are in good working order. “Then we always run our hands over the back and shoulders to make sure there are no sore spots or mats or mud in the fur or anything. We also check the saddle pad, make sure there’s nothing stuck to it that might cause a sore spot, then we drape it over like this.” He demonstrates on Bear again.

The pad is thick felt that has each reindeer’s symbol stitched into a corner. Jongdae and Minseok pick up and obediently inspect the one for their mount, looking at Bear to make sure they lay the pad in the right place.

“A bit higher up on the shoulders—that’s where they’re strongest, so we place most of our body weight over their natural balance point to make it easier for them to carry us.”

When Jongin’s adjusted the pads to his satisfaction, he directs them to lay the saddle over top, settling it into place just behind the highest point of their shoulder.

“What’re these made of?” Minseok asks. “They’re too light to have bronze or stone beneath the leather. Is it ivory?”

“Almost,” Jongin smiles. “We carve them from the pelvic bones of the ones we slaughter.”

Jongdae almost drops the saddle in his hands, but Minseok nods, calm as ever. “Using as much as you can shows respect for the lives taken,” he says, settling the saddle into place with Jongin’s guidance.

“Nothing goes to waste,” Jongin confirms. “Every note of their song is returned to the Resonance.”

“It’s respectful, not creepy,” Jongdae tells himself. “Just like sleeping in a skeleton hut.” 

Minseok had gotten tired of Jongdae’s fidgeting last night and literally sucked all the uneasiness out of him. Thankfully, they’d been alone in the High Cantor’s yurt, having gone to bed early after their strenuous trek.

“You eat meat and wear skins all the time,” Minseok laughs. “Why are bones so different?”

“I know not,” Jongdae whines. “Somehow they’re just—deader.”

He still manages to set the saddle properly in place despite the snickering from his companions. Jongin walks them through tightening and buckling the various straps in place, then in putting on the halter.

“Make sure none of the straps are twisted,” he cautions. “Any extra rubbing can make a sore, and then we’re not able to work them until they heal.” He grins. “And the last thing we do is tighten the saddle one more time, because every once in a while they hold their breath when you tighten it the first time, and you’d rather not discover the cinch is too loose by suddenly seeing the world sideways.”

“Definitely not,” Jongdae agrees, giving an extra tug on Stormy’s girth before sliding two fingers beneath it as Jongin showed him earlier.  _ Too _ tight’s not good, either.

“And then we ride,” Jongin declares with a grin after checking their work. “These gentle ladies are social but sensitive—they’ll follow the herd if you keep your hands low, picking their own way over the terrain. But if you need them to go a specific way, just tug gently on one rein or the other—or both if you need them to slow down or stop. Try not to panic—they’re not going to do anything foolish unless you goad them into it. They’d prefer to survive just as much as you would, all right?”

“Of course they do,” Minseok says, already astride Blizzard and patting her neck. 

Jongdae swings himself up, grateful that Stormy stands there like a rock as he settles himself in place. And she keeps standing there, placidly nibbling at the fluffy lichen and the purple flowers, staining less evident on her dark face.

He looks over at Minseok—Snow Walkers are used to asking animals to do things. Sure enough, Minseok’s murmuring to his mount, making little kissy noises as he gently coaxes her to circle one direction, then back the other way. 

Feeling a little foolish, Jongdae follows suit. “Good reindeer. Yes. All right. Let’s turn right—not just your head, your feet too.”

“Give her a little squeeze with your heels,” Jongin coaches.

It works—better than Jongdae expected. Stormy steps out quickly, causing Jongdae to flail a little to keep his balance as she prances in a circle.

“Stop tugging the rein,” Jongin laughs, “or she’ll keep turning forever!”

Feeling once again like Minseok should be the hero of this adventure and let Jongdae play the awkward sidekick he was born to be, Jongdae centers the reins again. Then he gently coaxes her back to the left, mostly for the sake of his own dizziness.

“Good!” Jongin cheers. “You’re getting it.”

“Yeah they are,” Taemin agrees as he trots up. Sunshine tosses his head majestically as he slows to a stop in front of them. “Nini, it’s your turn to reach things for Nana while Shiney and I take over here. My shoulders are sore.”

“Oh, all right. Take good care of our guests while I’m gone,” Jongin calls, prodding Bear off towards the half-dismantled yurts.

“I will!” Taemin calls sweetly, then turns to Minseok and Jongdae with a wicked grin. “So. Now that you know the basics… wanna race?”

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Jongdae gives it no voice, but Minseok can feel his impatience. As the days continue to lengthen, their time feels shorter and shorter. Unlike his charge, Minseok worries not that they’ll fail to find what they need in time, despite the vastness of Aeolis. Instead, the growing weight Minseok bears is that of impending separation.

His life was given to him that he may serve the silenced. This interlude among the living, these months of warmth, are only his to enjoy because he’s currently unable to perform his usual duties. Once Jongdae’s quest is complete, Minseok must return to Walking the lychways, to perform his true purpose.

He tries to content himself with the idea that Jongdae will be waiting for him at the end of every conveyance, that Jongdae loves him, that every few weeks Minseok will once again know the joy of having Jongdae in his arms, in his bed. He ignores any whispers that, once Jongdae’s a hero, everyone will desire him. That he’ll have his pick, that he’ll have no reason to suffer an empty bed for weeks at a time when he could have an appreciative body pressed against his every night. 

It ought not to bother Minseok so much. So what if Jongdae enjoys the company of others while Minseok’s thrumming himself warm in his sealskins, pressed close to Tan’s furry form? That’d hardly mean he’d have no love for Minseok anymore. And it’s not like Minseok’s ever been monogamous before. He could continue to satisfy his own physical urges with his fellows like he’s done since puberty.

Yet Minseok knows he’ll do no such thing. 

Not necessarily out of a sense of disloyalty, but because nothing else will feel as good. Jongdae has learned Minseok’s body like a memorized hymn, knows how to direct his pleasure like a grand symphonic. Minseok had considered himself a reasonably skilled lover before. He remembers being amused by Jongdae’s initially inexpert efforts. Sharing sex with Jongdae had been wonderful, but more because of their emotional connection than the physical one.

Except after months of pleasing each other, Jongdae knows not merely how to pleasure a man, take care of a partner, but how to destroy Minseok specifically. Where Minseok’s body is sensitive, the degree of sensation that his body responds best to. What words to murmur in Minseok’s ear to make him too hot for his own skin even before Jongdae touches him anywhere interesting. The signs of Minseok’s impending release, so that Jongdae can leave him writhing and unsatisfied over and over before finally allowing him to explode.

No other lover could compare to that, not unless they also spent months studying Minseok’s pleasure. And Minseok has no wish to have that sort of connection with anyone else. He belongs to Jongdae, and Jongdae’s the only man he ever wishes to belong to.

Unfortunately, Minseok also belongs to the Resonance, sworn to the silenced. The clusters of swinging forms atop the distant towers they ride past are a testament to Elyxion’s need. Minseok will serve as he always has, and he’ll enjoy this balmy spring while it lasts.

“So all of this is part of Aeolis?” Jongdae asks Jongin as they ride.

“Sort of? There’s no official boundary, we just follow the reindeer. Aeolis is wherever they are.”

“Then… are there places that you always stop? Places the ancestors would’ve also stopped? Like a temple, or…?”

“You saw our bell tower,” Taemin laughs. “That’s as close to a temple as Aeolis gets.”

“We do tend to stop in the same places every year, but there are no permanent structures aside from what’s naturally part of Elyxion,” Jongin adds.

“Does anyone have a trunk full of religious relics I could search? Anyone have any fancy heirlooms—jewelry, trinkets, ornate goods of any kind?”

Taemin and Jongin shrug. “We help pack and unpack everyone, and I’ve never seen anything like that. But folks could be seeing to their treasures themselves, I suppose.”

“There’s the lesser soundbow that the Low Cantor wears,” Jongin muses. “And lots of people have jewelry. Nothing with a faceted stone like that, though.” 

“Then… where am I meant to look for this stone?” Jongdae turns to Minseok, eyebrows kipped up in distress.

“You’ll find it,” Minseok assures him.

“Yeah, it’s in the prophecy, right? Does it say where it is?”

“It just says ‘what fear hath veiled, hope shall unlock.’”

Jongin makes a face. “Well. That’s… decidedly unhelpful.”

“I know!” Jongdae whines. “They’re ambiguous as all bells, and I’ve been just flailing around like this for months!”

“But you’ve found them all so far,” Minseok reminds him. “You’re meant to find them, so you will.”

Jongdae’s brows flatten along with his mouth. “Seok, I love you, but I’d like a bit more specific assistance, if you’d be so kind.”

Minseok’s lips quirk into half a smile. “Sorry. Have you asked the High Cantor for ideas? Places she finds more Resonant than others?”

Those expressive eyebrows shoot up again. “Oh! Now see, that’s actually a very helpful suggestion. Thank you.” He smiles over at Minseok, then his face distorts with alarm as Stormy tosses her head. “Watch where you’re flinging those antlers, there, girl.”

“Nana usually rides with the little kids and their mothers. She likes to sing to them when they get bored or fussy. C’mon, let’s go ask her.”

Minseok and Blizzard seem to have come to an understanding, because he barely has to direct her to get her to follow the others. Or perhaps she simply wishes not to be left behind.

Minseok knows that feeling all too well himself.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

The High Cantor of the Eye only laughs when Jongdae asks her which places are more Resonant.

“Dear Spark, you know better than anyone that Resonance is everywhere.”

“But the stone I need is in one  _ specific _ place, and Aeolis is huge and impermanent.” 

“That is rather a challenge,” the High Cantor says, but her smile is sympathetic. “But I suppose that the Clef and the Stave are worthy of being trusted with our transient temple’s secrets.”

“I’d of course hold silent any secrets until death,” Jongdae assures her, heart kicking up at this possible lead. “We both would, right, Seok?”

Minseok smiles. “Even if my tongue were loose, I'am not regularly in the company of anyone who’d be able to repeat anything I divulged.”

The High Cantor turns to Minseok, gimlet eyes narrowed slightly. “Surely you’ve not so little faith in your success that you anticipate returning to the bleak?”

“On the contrary—if Jongdae does not succeed, it’ll not be because I failed to give my last breath in the pursuit of success. I believe he’s meant to save Elyxion, and I’ll do all I can to ensure it. But should I survive my role as Stave—”

“Of course you’ll survive,” Jongdae interrupts, scowling at his beloved. He’d not intended his tattoo as a clapping  _ memorial. _

“—then my next obligation will be to the long-waiting silenced. Whatever I’ve learned on this quest, my charges, current or future, will be repeating none of it. And my companion, while vocal, has yet to learn to scold me in my own tongue.”

The High Cantor’s laugh rings out again but Jongdae’s disquiet lingers. It’s one thing to know that Minseok’s willing to sacrifice himself for Jongdae, that he accepts that this quest may claim his life. But more and more, Jongdae’s beginning to worry that Minseok  _ expects _ to die so that Elyxion may survive.

“Well, in that case, I’ll ask for your patience until we reach the nursing field. That’s the next good spot for the reindeer to graze, and there’s a nice little hill there for the belltower. We’ll have a service, and afterwards, my Jongin will show you two how to spiritwalk.”

This already sounds rather distressing on several levels. “How long will it take to arrive?” Jongdae asks, because he’s decided it’s best  _ not _ to ask what spiritwalking is. He’s had to learn some new, impossible skill everywhere he’s gone, which means he has to learn this, too. Leaving it undefined will mean he’s less able to stress about it.

“We move at the speed of the slowest calf,” the High Cantor replies, smiling at whatever face Jongdae makes in response to that non-answer. “But usually about a week.”

Jongdae nods, swallowing any whining. If he’s been forced to master any virtue on this seemingly-eternal quest to restore the Tongues, it’s that of patience.

Or at least, that of  _ pretending  _ to have patience.

At least he gets to bed down with Minseok in their sleeping furs beneath the open sky, no visible bones in sight. And they’re far enough away from anyone else’s furs that he can pin his Seok down and make him squirm. He’s not the most vocal guy in any circumstance, so Jongdae always takes particular pleasure in stealing sound from his edible lips. 

“Dae,” he gasps when Jongdae swallows him down, no longer nearly so sensitive to the nudging slide at the back of his throat. “Chenny—feels so good, so good to me.”

“It’s going to get better,” Jongdae promises when he pulls off, wiping saliva from his chin. “I’m going to ride you.”

Minseok’s eyes go wide. “You needn’t—”

“I would, anyway,” Jongdae insists, then smiles wryly down at his love. “Besides, I need the practice.” 

Jongdae’s more than a little saddlesore, but he embraces the tenderness and Minseok’s knowing chuckle as he straddles Minseok’s hips. Minseok’s hands come up to wrap around Jongdae’s waist, then slide down to thumb his hipbones, eyes glittering in the starlight as he looks up at Jongdae. Minseok’s hands may not be big but they’re certainly strong, and Jongdae feels very grounded, connected to his Seok and the furs below them, sheltered by the fleece draped over Jongdae’s shoulders.

“You’re so beautiful, Dae.”

Jongdae snorts. “Me? You know what you look like, right?”

“I’ve seen my reflection. I’d rather stare at you.”

He takes a hand from Jongdae’s hip to run reverent fingers over Jongdae’s shoulder, touch gentle over the tattooed skin. “You’re like a dream.”

“Well, it’s not one you’ll wake from,” Jongdae assures him. “I’m truly yours. Always, Seok. We’re together in this, and forever afterward.”

“Resonance willing,” Minseok smiles.

He pulls Jongdae down to kiss him again and Jongdae allows it, lets Minseok distract him with lips and fingers before he engulfs his beloved in the heat of his body. He’s never conducted a peal with the fervor with which he directs Minseok’s pleasure, as if by wringing every drop of ecstasy from his body he can infuse himself into Minseok’s very soul.

“Seok, I love you,” Jongdae gasps as his own pleasure breaks. “Truly. Eternally.”

“I’m yours,” Minseok murmurs against his lips.

Jongdae decides not to push it, not to chase down his disquiet. He keeps the words inside even as he tries to put his heart’s cry into their kiss.

_ I need you. Never leave me. _

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Riding all day is something Minseok’s not sure he’ll ever get used to. He longs to get down and walk, to stretch his legs, to spare his seat and thighs from the tenderness caused by repeated bouncing against the saddle. He dislikes the noise of the herd and of the herders, the bleating of calves and mothers to stay connected, the barking of the herding dogs, the shouts of the herdsman to stay in control.

He’d rather walk beside the man he loves, be close and quiet enough to chat with him, to make him laugh instead of always seeing his face set in endurance of his own body’s discomfort.

At least they have the nights, wrapped close, moving together, swallowing the sounds of each other’s pleasure. In such a short time, Jongdae’s gotten Minseok so used to sharing pleasure, so anticipatory, that his body expects it, starts to harden as soon as they’re concealed within the sleeping furs.

Minseok relishes every caress, every whispered word. He does not think about how miserable it’ll be to return to solitude and the bleak, body aching every night along with his heart.

“You carry a cloud across your spirit, dear child,” the High Cantor says one evening when Minseok’s brushing down Blizzard. “Tell this old woman what troubles such a pure heart.”

Keeping the spring mud from caking their mounts is a constant battle, but at least his assigned doe’s much more docile than her name implies. She merely shifts her weight when Minseok pauses, one of the reindeer’s feet still resting on his bent knee.

“I suppose I'm a cloudy soul, Grandmother,” he responds, using the term of address she insists on.

“You are not,” she states emphatically. “You’re meant to shine, as we all are.”

Minseok shrugs. Walkers are not like everyone else, but he’s not about to argue that point with the High Cantor. “Perhaps our sunny Spark shines so bright, we all seem cloudy in comparison.”

“That’s not how the sun works,” she dismisses. “The moon should reflect the brightness, not draw a veil between itself and the sun.” She moves closer to Blizzard, gentling the doe with a murmur, then begins brushing the mud from her snowy neck. “And our Spark’s not what the world revolves around, anyway.”

_ Mine does, _ screams Minseok’s heart.

“It’s the Resonance itself at the center of all, and Elyxion’s Great Bell is but an instrument in the symphony.”

“Without Jongdae—”

“Without Jongdae, another would’ve taken up the task. One of the survivors would’ve stepped into the void, or someone in a settlement after their Walkers reported the way to Dominari impassable.”

Minseok shakes his head. “Jongdae was born for this.”

“Jongdae was born with an ear for the resonance and a voice more capable than many, that’s true. But he was also trained for accurate pitch and raised to believe his duty came before all else. Rather like yourself.”

Pressing his lips together, Minseok returns to picking hardened mud from between Blizzard’s toes.

“You know, Walker Minseok, there are some who interpret the prophecy as the Spark and Bell being separate, analogous to the Stave and Clef. That the Spark is ignited by the Bell, struck alight to be the Hope of Elyxion while the Bell rings out the tale. Or that everything is separate—Bell, Spark, Stave, Clef, and so on.”

Minseok shakes his head again. He’s no scholar, but he’s read the prophecies himself, had been there when the High Cantor of Dorus had worked them out with Jongdae, narrowed the possibilities to the most likely, drawn a route that they’d followed, that had proved true at every turn.

“I personally think that Baekhyunnie is correct and that the pair of you are on the proper path. But while a clef is tied to a stave, a stave may stand alone. It can work with any clef, any key. Its usefulness transcends a single song or even a single symphonic.”

Minseok sets Blizzard’s foot down and straightens. The High Cantor is watching him from beneath the reindeer’s chin, diminutive but powerful like a lantern in the dark.

“This is not your final movement, Walker Minseok. And even if the rest of a work has been a single rhythm, time signatures may change. I’d be unsurprised if you ended up marching to a different beat when this verse of your life has been sung. Take care not to throw everything away over a false note.”

Minseok has no response to this, but it seems the High Cantor’s not expecting one. She smiles softly at Minseok, gives Blizzard’s neck a final pat, and walks away, leaving Minseok to mull over her words.

They’re all too much for a dreg to take to heart. He’s the interchangeable part in this scenario—jerky is just as nutritive whether mutton or muskox. The stave supports the clef. Without it, it’s nothing but meaningless lines.

But it’s true that the moon is meant to reflect the sun, and Minseok can at least pull away the barrier between them. He’ll love Jongdae with his whole being, shine his light back at the spark as brightly as he can, like the wolfbeam magnifying the mundane into the magnificent.

Jongdae has been unsettled, but the stave’s meant to provide order and surety to a song. Minseok will be bright and steady, warm and constant, fully engaged in the love that’ll break his heart just as much whether he holds himself back or not.

For now, Jongdae’s his. So for now, Minseok will relish every moment.

All songs come to an end, but that’s no reason for them not to be vigorously sung. 

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

The nursing field is absolutely beautiful. The lichen growing around the little hill are an explosion of color that Jongdae feasts his eyes on after months and months of the monotony of the bleak. The Aeolians set up the belltower atop the rise, and once the evening chores are completed, everyone gathers around for a service.

The cantors have obviously worked together for years, twining their voices effortlessly. Jongin, Taemin, and a pair of young women work the bells, each taking two pull ropes except Jongin who tolls the heavier tenor. It’s lovely even if it’s only superficially similar to the grand services Jongdae grew up with, the smaller bells much more tinny but no less Resonant for their lighter sound.

Minseok stands close at Jongdae’s side for the entire thing, pressed close, fingers entwined. He’s been like this for the last half of the journey, almost bubbly instead of borderline morose, smiling at Jongdae all the time. Perhaps the easier travel agreed with him, or perhaps he’d set aside whatever fatalistic outlook had dulled him. Whatever the reason for the change, Jongdae’s certainly not complaining. He’d more than missed Minseok’s laughter.

He’s much more playful when they’re alone in their furs, teasing Jongdae, keeping him on edge with hands and mouth for the space of an eternity before he lets Jongdae bury himself deep. And once when Jongdae had been riding him, he’d suddenly flipped them both over and driven into Jongdae firm and steady, sending continuous sparks up Jongdae’s spine until he’d cried out and pulsed his pleasure without being touched directly. He’d felt like blubber afterward, completely mindless and boneless, and Minseok had cleaned him up and gathered him close, had hummed fragments of an infant’s lullaby against his skin until he’d floated away like a puffy cloud, well above the sleeping earth.

But he hangs back when Jongin beckons to Jongdae, lingering atop the hill as the rest of the Aeolians drift off toward their rest. Jongdae tightens his grip on Minseok’s hand, frowning at him in the deepening twilight.

“I’m not needed for this,” Minseok protests. “This sort of secret’s not meant for a Walker, despite my joking.”

“It’s meant for my Stave,” Jongdae insists. “You’ve been beside me every step of the way so far, Seokkie. I’d have you learn this with me, too.”

Minseok smiles softly at him. “If the Clef would have me at his side, his side is where I’ll be.”

Jongdae lets Minseok steal a brief kiss, then leads him up to where Jongin awaits.

“Spread a hide and sit,” Jongin instructs, handing them each a furred reindeer skin to protect from the sodden ground. 

They imitate Jongin’s posture, cross-legged with hands resting on ankles, spine gently curved forward, head bowed. It’s silent for a moment after they’ve settled, and then Jongin’s soft voice slips through the near-darkness.

“Now, the main thing to remember is not to panic,” Jongin says. “Sending one’s spirit out of the body is of course clapping freaky, but it’s important to remain calm. If you wish to return to the body, let yourself be tugged back in rather than forcing it. Even if you think you’re lost, you’re too far away, you’re unable to perceive your body for whatever reason, if you relax and wait for the tug, you’ll always be able to find your way back, all right?”

They agree out loud, no longer able to see each other nod.

“Will we be able to communicate?” Jongdae asks. “With each other or anyone else?”

“Kind of. Not verbally, not easily, though some can make audible sounds. But you’ll be sort of visible, kind of like a transparent smudge of your own shape.”

“The shades,” Jongdae says, straightening up to look at Minseok.

“The what?”

“Sometimes there are sheer figures along the lychways,” Minseok explains. “They follow Walkers, but at a distance. Our companions keep them from coming too close.”

“Huh. That… is terrifying. I’ve no idea how you Walkers deal with all that.”

Minseok laughs. “What other option is there?”

“…Fair point,” Jongin chuckles. “Still. You guys are hardcore.”

“The hardest,” Jongdae agrees, even though he’s pretty sure that while Minseok’s spine is made of bronze, his core is nothing but oxdown. 

“Anyway, that smudgy shape is why we generally only do this at night, so as to blend in and not freak out the reindeer or anyone who happens to be awake. We’d not have anyone feel spied on or otherwise unsettled as to the purpose of this ability.”

“And what is the purpose?”

“Scouting, mostly—seeing if there’s any hazard ahead or if the usual grazing grounds seem rich enough to support the herd, if traders are on their way to the expected meeting point, that sort of thing.” 

“Makes sense.” 

Without a static city, it’d probably be difficult to coordinate shipments in or out, and Jongdae knows that many of these lichens that keep the reindeer fed also provide dyes and teas and even food for the rest of Elyxion. And all the Aeolians are dressed well, so clearly they’re getting wool goods from somewhere.

“I’ll trill now, and if either of you fail to join me, I’ll slip back into my body and demonstrate again.”

Once they both make sounds of assent, Jongin does indeed trill, an odd oscillation that’s not quite out of key with itself. Jongdae waits, letting Minseok emulate it first. It’s an accurate reproduction, though Jongdae can only guess it worked based on the resulting silence. He reproduces the trill himself, and then he’s standing outside himself, looking down at the trio of hunched bodies.

It’s eerie as all bells.

But then Minseok’s at his side, sticking close as he always does. Somehow he knows it’s Minseok, would recognize his lover’s spirit even if Jongin’s were not a bit more stretched out just as his body is taller. He tries to reach for Minseok’s hand, but the wispy end of his arm only passes through Minseok’s with a shivery sensation.

Jongdae’s disappointed but not truly surprised. What does surprise him is that Jongin’s spirit lifts from the ground, an indistinct blurring against the newly-emerging stars.

A moment later, so does Minseok’s. And Jongdae’s not going to be left behind, so he somehow finds himself ascending as well. 

It’s still unsettling to look down at their bodies below them, so Jongdae directs his gaze elsewhere instead. The world is higher-contrast than it’d been through his physical eyes, but there’s far less color, most everything rendered in shades of grey. It’s somehow both less and more detailed, and he marvels at the ground below as Jongin leads them southward.

Remembering his goal, Jongdae tries to trill again, wondering if that’ll send him back to his body or if it’ll somehow make the stone he needs glow even though it’s probably buried somewhere instead of simply lying peacefully atop the lichen. Nothing seems to happen, though Jongin and Minseok both pause and turn in his direction, so he supposes it was at least audible.

“Huh. That was interesting,” he tries to say, but it fails to Resonate through him like the trill had. And even as he’s saying it, the other two are turning away as if they’re unable to perceive his words.

He follows after them, unsure as to their destination or if they even have one, eyes roaming the ground below for anything that’s not merely more lichen, some clue, some direction. He lifts himself a little higher, and freezes in the air as he attempts to gasp breath into lungs his spirit lacks.

Far to the west, there’s a deep blue tint over the land, color richer in contrast with the surrounding grey. But Jongdae’s much more concerned about the boiling black that seems to cover the whole southern tip of Elyxion, curving up like a bell as it spreads into the bleak. It’s slowly spreading out to the sides, towards Dorus and Yon, little curling tendrils that seem lazy rather than hesitant. Like the shadows could claim those cities whenever they wished, even as the top of the bell is licking toward Phrygia.

He’s running out of time.

Breaking away from the other two, Jongdae darts toward the bluish spot, hoping it’s some echo of the violet stone that’d complete the spectrum around his neck. It’s only more lichen, nothing to distinguish it, nothing to say that it’s any place of import, no landmarks nearby except for a tower sagging slightly beneath the weight of too many silenced. 

Wolves pace him as he settles over the blue patch, snapping at his blurred form and howling in that eerie harmony that screams of loneliness and danger. Jongdae tries to ignore them and search, but the sensation of their jaws passing through his spirit is too unsettling and there seems to truly be nothing to find, anyway. Swallowing inaudible curses, Jongdae lifts himself out of reach of the wolves and closes his eyes. Despair washes through him to be replaced by annoyance when one of the wolves bites at the end of his arm.

But when he opens his eyes, it’s Minseok pawing at him, then flitting off to the northeast a bit before circling back to Jongdae’s stationary form. If Jongdae could laugh, he would, wryly amused that his Walker is still leading him, still guiding him, still calling him home.

Except that Minseok  _ is _ Jongdae’s home.

The rubble of Dominari is where Jongdae once lived. The isle of Gyun is where his family stays. But Jongdae’s heart will forever live in the indomitable man he adores.

The man who believes that Jongdae’s meant to do this. That if he only keeps trying, he must eventually succeed. That the only way Jongdae can possibly fail is by giving up entirely.

So this is a setback, but Jongdae knew that it was a foolish hope that the stone would promptly make itself known simply because Jongdae had managed to learn another trick of Resonance. He can and will make another attempt to find the stone every night until he does.

For now, he heeds the tug calling him back to his body. Back to the arms of the man he loves. Back home.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

“To the west?” The High Cantor curls a finger over her chin. “Well. We usually only head that way in autumn, but there’s no reason for you not to borrow Blizzard and Stormy and head that way. Take Jongin and Taemin with you—they know the land well and if you run into trouble, Jongin can spiritwalk to alert me.”

“It’s not a big deal, Seok,” Jongdae says. “It’s probably nothing, and there were wolves—”

Minseok all but glares at him. “If you think Tannie’s unable to deal with a few wolves, you’ve not been paying attention.”

“We left Tannie all the way back at the lychway.”

“We did not. She’s been trailing us, staying downwind, getting fat on reindeer placenta.”

Jongdae opens and shuts his mouth twice before slumping over his bowl of stew. Minseok wraps an arm around him, and Jongdae relaxes into it in a way that never fails to make Minseok feel like the mightiest man alive.

“Chenny. You felt something there. It’s the best lead we have. And Jongin and Taemin will probably be thrilled to share in our adventure.”

Jongdae snorts. “Only a guy who’s used to walking the bleak would think of a slog over sodden lichen as an adventure.”

“If it’s with you, I’m excited for any journey.”

Jongdae pulls away to pretend to scowl at him. “You’re moonier than midsummer,” he scolds.

“I am,” Minseok says, entirely unashamed. He’s not holding back anymore.

“You’re adorable, the pair of you,” the High Cantor declares. “Nini! Stop kissing long enough to hear what your Nana needs you to do.”

A red-faced Jongin slinks toward the breakfast gathering, a grinning Taemin in tow. “Yes, Nana?”

“Our guests would like to head west for a while. You’ll go with them—yes, both of you.”

Jongin’s almost-pout turns into a broad smile. “We’ll be happy to.”

“Of course you will. So pack your mounts for what the four of you will need for several weeks. The four of you will keep each other safe—oh.” 

The High Cantor heads off into one of the tents, returning with a crock and a comb.

“Applying this buck urine to your companion’s fur may keep your mounts calm in the presence of a predator,” she says, handing them to Minseok.

Jongdae bursts into laughter at whatever face Minseok’s making. “Tannie’s going to be so mad at you.” 

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Tan is indeed disgusted with Minseok, who applies the scent-masking fluid to her fur with a lot of distorted faces and apologies, much to Jongdae’s amusement. He stands there and laughs until Minseok threatens to apply the buck urine to him, too.

“You’d never,” Jongdae states. “You’ll have to sleep next to me.”

“I’d make you sleep with Tan and ruin Jongin and Taemin’s fun by bedding down with them.”

Jongdae pouts. Minseok completes the application, stoppers the crock well, and comes over to kiss Jongdae’s protruding lip. This leads to more kissing, interrupted when Minseok notices Tan is attempting to groom herself.

“I know it’s gross, Tannie,” Minseok coos as he combs the urine back into the just-licked fur, “but it’s only for a few days. It’ll wear off and the silly deer’ll be used to you by then.”

The silly deer still eye Tan warily, as do Jongin and Taemin the first time they see her.

“I’ve never seen a tundra cat up close,” Taemin says in a near whisper. “Those teeth are as long as my shinbone.”

“She’ll not hurt anyone who’s no threat to me,” Minseok says. “You can pet her if you’d like.”

“Except you just covered her in deer pee,” Jongin says, lip curled. “I’ll appreciate her ferocity and her ferocious stink from right here, thanks.”

“Good plan,” Jongdae agrees, then schools his smile into something more serious. “Thanks for coming with us. I mean, I know the High Cantor gave you little choice, but I still appreciate it.”

“Are you kidding? This is way more fun than having to set up and tear down camp. Hopefully we’ll miss doing that at least twice while we go check out this blue patch.”

“It’s probably not actually very blue,” Jongdae laughs. “It just seemed like it when I was spiritwalking. I’m afraid I’m leading you off with no real clue where to go.”

“We can spiritwalk again, right?” Minseok asks. “Make sure we’re going in the right direction each night before we sleep?”

“Or during the day—there’s no reason not to do it when the sun’s up except that we’d rather people think we’re just meditating or sending out our mind or something.”

“So we can check when we’re unsure of our path,” Minseok concludes, tightening Blizzard’s saddle one last time.

“If it’s even still glowing,” Jongdae mutters under his breath. 

The uneasiness of seeing the shadows spread still churns in his gut. The pressure to succeed and to do it quickly is as physical a weight as the pack on Stormy’s back, and like the doe, Jongdae feels like prancing irritably beneath it.

“Easy, girl,” he murmurs instead, trying to soothe his mount while his own feet are still firmly on the ground. “You’re all right. I’m all right. Everything will be all right.”

And if it’s not, Jongdae will sure as bells not be around to know about it.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨ⵔ(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Minseok finds the riding much easier to endure now that they have a destination, even if Jongdae’s less than confident this bluish patch of ground has any connection to what they seek. It’s not quite the violet that they’d expected to fill out the spectrum represented by the other five stones, but it seemed rather close to Minseok’s own spirit-eyes when he’d followed Jongdae’s form.

They encounter wolves for the first time after only a few days, only a few scouts investigating their camp. Tan runs them off before they’ve a chance to spook the reindeer, but they start keeping watches after that, simply to have someone holding their mounts and keeping them steady instead of having them bolt.

They’d rather not spread out too far when they sleep, so they tacitly agree to ignore the soft sounds coming from the other set of sleeping furs. Minseok usually enjoys how vocal his lover is, knows Jongdae likes to hear his noises of pleasure, but they’re both quieter than usual, making it seem somehow more intense.

Minseok relishes it. The pair of them take it in turns to drive the other brainless with prolonged teasing before hot ecstasy, perhaps taking a bit longer to get to sleep but sleeping all the deeper nonetheless. And perhaps ‘deep sleep’ is part of the earthwax to Minseok’s wick, because before they begin their nightly teasing and pleasing, Jongdae goes spiritwalking to ensure they’re still heading toward the blue.

He does it while lying in Minseok’s arms, and it’s incredibly unsettling for the warm body he’s holding to suddenly go still and cold. Minseok holds it close anyway, reminding himself that he’d done this, that he’d returned to his own body perfectly fine, that Jongdae will of course find his way back, too. And he always does, smiling before he even opens his eyes, exhaling that first gasping breath in the shape of Minseok’s name.

“I’m here,” Jongdae tells him every night when he returns from his incorporeal jaunt.

“I’m glad,” Minseok always says in response, and then neither of them say anything intelligible for a while after that. 

Minseok knows he’s trying to erase the sensation of the uninhabited body with that of Jongdae’s writhing, moaning, very much alive body, but neither of them are complaining about the results. Still, he’ll be glad when they find this stone and needn’t look for it through spirit-eyes anymore.

“It’s right around here,” Jongdae says one afternoon. “I recognize the landscape.”

The landscape’s not particularly recognizable to Minseok’s eyes, but he’s not the one who’s been visiting it every night for over a week. Jongdae starts guiding Stormy in slow lines back and forth across the spongy lichen, frowning at the ground and muttering beneath his breath about wasted time.

“Perhaps if you spiritwalk, something will be more apparent?” Minseok suggests. “And in the day, we’ll be able to see you—if you find something, we can be your hands.”

“Sounds as good a plan as any,” Jongin agrees, Taemin nodding along.

Jongdae turns to Minseok, looking a little bashful. “Will you hold me, Seokkie?” he asks. “Stay with my body while I point out things for Tae and Nini to investigate?”

“Of course,” Minseok agrees. He’d been considering doing just that anyway unless Jongdae had set him some other task.

So he ends up with Jongdae’s lifeless-seeming body in his arms once again, rocking slightly and humming some old song that’s been in his head since childhood even though it’s not something ever sung at the Temple of the Silent Heart. He’s rather glad about that, because though his life is dedicated to the silenced, he’s counting his own heartbeats until he can feel Jongdae’s steady pulse again.

It’s still there even in this unoccupied state, but it’s sluggish and faint alongside slow, shallow breaths. That pause between exhale and inhale always seems to coincide with the lag between pulses, and every time Minseok sends a silent prayer for the next beat to arrive without incident.

It does every time. Minseok prays every time anyway.

Jongdae’s shade wanders much as his body had, back and forth in something like a grid. Sometimes he stops, and Jongin and Taemin rifle through the lichen until Jongdae starts to drift again. Minseok’s occasional glances at the position of the sun indicate that they’re at it for at least an hour before Jongdae starts to circle.

They’re tight little hoops that Jongin steps into, no room for Taemin at his side. And when he kneels to push aside the lichen, he gives a wordless shout.

Jongdae’s shade snaps back into his body faster than Minseok’s eye can track. He neglects to even greet Minseok, but pushes himself up and stumbles over to where Taemin has joined Jongin at clearing away lichen and earth. Minseok steps up behind, curious as to the discovery but unwilling to get in the way.

It’s some kind of door. Or lid? A bronze square with hinges on one side and a ring folded into a groove opposite.

“It’s a cache,” Jongin says, smiling up at Minseok. “Emergency stores that Aeolians lay by so they needn’t be carried until they’re needed. They’re all over the place, and every child learns their locations—there’s even a song and everything. But this one’s not one I knew about—you, Tae?”

Taemin shakes his head.

“A cache not taught to children, nor did my grandmother tell me extra caches existed. With the size of the lichens growing over it, it must’ve been here for a long time, undisturbed.”

“How do we open it?” Jongdae asks, having tugged at the ring to no avail.

“Usually three or four big guys each hook an antler to the ring or to the other antlers, then they all pull together. But we’ve no antlers not currently connected to living reindeer.”

“We do have ivory, though,” Minseok states, retrieving his staff from where it’s hung horizontally on Blizzard’s side.

Threading the staff through the ring gives them a long enough handle, and with two of them on either side of the door, they count down and lift the staff in unison. The door squeals a protest but lifts, leaving the four of them staggering back until it catches itself open a bit past vertical.

As if part of a well-conducted cancion, they all move to peer into the revealed cavity.

It’s not large or deep, especially considering the size and heft of the bronze door. It seems to have once been lined with sealskin long since rotted away, leaving tufts of fur behind. There are scraps of some unusual fabric still clinging to a bundle, something that might’ve once been made of actual wood. Minseok’s only seen the material once, a carving once adorning the cover of a book and now carefully hung behind glass in the sacristy of the Temple of the Heart.

This appears to have been carved once, too, the only evidence patterns in the soil and the mottling of the fabric scraps. But the contents of the bundle appear to be intact, and Jongdae crouches to gather up the strands of tarnished metal.

It’s not bronze but something that turns black with age, and it’s shaped into an ornate, delicate circlet that seems to have been intended to rest atop someone’s head. There’s a deep blue stone at the center, the color of the last glow in the sky before dusk steals it away.

Jongdae lets out a ragged breath, then starts laughing. It’s not a sound of amusement, merely a random release of tension, the kind Minseok’s sometimes heard as he’s carried away silenced children. Jongdae’s laugh is not nearly so broken, but it’s equally uncontrolled, and Minseok crouches to wrap his arms around Jongdae’s shaking shoulders.

“You did it, Chenny,” he murmurs. “You found them all.”

“Holy bells,” Jongdae hiccups. “Seokkie. I never could’ve without you.”

Minseok holds back his comment that any other Snow Walker would’ve done just as well, partly because he knows several Walkers who would’ve stayed in Yon and left the rest of Elyxion to its fate. And partly because he’s content for Jongdae to feel gratitude instead of urgency, to have a moment of relief from the mounting pressure. 

He’d seen the shadows oozing over Elyxion. He knows his time with Jongdae’s almost up, one way or the other. But they’ll face it together, and Jongdae will triumph. The Spark of Life will rekindle the Tongues and the world will be at peace, and Minseok will be right there to ensure it happens, even if it’s the last thing he ever does.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

If there’s one thing Jongdae’s better at than anyone else, it’s rubbing substances onto metal. So he makes up a paste of the sandy dirt beneath the lichens and some sheepsfoot oil, rubbing at the headpiece whenever the four of them stop to rest. By the time they meet up with the rest of the Aeolians—setting their direction based on Jongin’s spiritwalking this time—Jongdae’s made the light metal gleam again. Their tinker eyes it with amazement, but easily agrees to prise the stone from it and set it in the Soundbow instead, replacing it with a blue-dyed slice of antler polished to a gleaming dome. When the swap is complete, Jongdae lets Minseok fasten the Soundbow around his neck before taking the headpiece to its true owner.

“I think it’s silver,” he tells the High Cantor when he presents her with it. 

The ancient metal had been brought to Elyxion by the ancestors, but all of it that exists is what they’d originally had. There are no deposits of the metal on Elyxion, only copper and tin, and it’s way too heavy to be tin.

“You truly mean to give this to an old woman instead of your beloved? Your sister?”

Jongdae shakes his head. “It’s an Aeolian heirloom, and if it was with the stone it probably had religious significance at some point. It’s meant to belong to the High Cantor of the Eye.”

“I shall treasure it well and pass it down,” the High Cantor promises. “Are you sure you’ll not take your mounts with you? I know time is pressing.”

Jongdae shakes his head again. “The lychways are meant to be Walked by the living,” he says, not even having to look at Minseok before refusing. “But we appreciate your generous replenishment of our food stores.”

“Jongdae, Elyxion’s Hope, it’s only the least we could do. Resonance preserve you.”

“And also preserve you,” he and Minseok answer in unison.

They turn back to wave every so often until the Aeolians fade from view. Jongdae’s legs are a different kind of sore by the time they reach the nearest minim, but he almost welcomes it. He’s moving again, finally going to restore the Tongues and send his mother and brother to the dance properly.

He just has to figure out how to get through a seething ocean of shadows in order to do that. Surely the stones set in the Soundbow are some sort of protection now that they’re held against his throat. But when he tries to make amplified light or fire, he still feels the cold, still the edges of his vision go dim. How is he to fight without Resonant weapons?

Minseok’s all but skipping down the lychway, and he jiggles the hand he’s holding to get Jongdae’s attention.

“Fret not, dear Chenny. It’ll work out. It’s meant to.”

Jongdae nods, managing a weak smile. Surely it’s a poor cantor that holds less faith than a Snow Walker.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾


	8. Ghost Note

# Ghost࿄Note

Jongdae had been trying to go home ever since Minseok had dragged him away from the crumbling temple, but now that his feet are actually on the lychway towards Dominari, it seems that Jongdae has to force himself to keep them moving.

Minseok knows Jongdae's anxious for this to be over with so much. But he also knows Jongdae’s absolutely terrified.

It’s one thing to master miraculous little tunes, make pretty stones glow, feel the support of his new friends, his surviving family. It’s entirely another to step out into the bleak with only a staff, a Snow Walker, and a tundra cat, walking down a pathway lined with the waiting bodies of the dead.

Not a one of the dozens of silenced has been disturbed by predators, but then again even Tan's prowling down the lychway with tail puffed and ears pinned back. She dislikes getting closer to the shadows just as much as the humans do, and it’s all Minseok can do to hold on to his usual unflappable demeanor along with Jongdae’s hand. But Minseok has no wish to make this any more difficult for his Dae than it already is, so he forces himself to relax. 

This is meant to happen, they’re fulfilling the prophecy, so of course it’s going to be a challenge, but one the Great Bell will be able to overcome. And Minseok's still so in awe, so honored that he gets to be the one supporting the indomitable Spark.

But his buoyant attitude sinks to the bottom of the Gullet when they reach the edge of the glacier and can actually see down the slope to the ruined temple and the silent town around it.

The whole place is boiling with shadows, waves of sinister ink lapping at the shore of the hillside, like a basin about to overflow and leak death all over Elyxion.

“We’ll never make it,” Jongdae says, voice a whisper of despair. “There are too many, even were the Blood beneath me and the wolfbeam at my back.”

“You’ll make it,” Minseok assures him, bending to tighten the laces of his boots. “I’ll make certain of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll draw them off. I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”

“Seok, no.”

“Dae, yes.” Minseok cups Jongdae’s face in his gloved hands, hating the distress written by his eyebrows. “Dae. My Chenny. Our Jongdae—Elyxion’s Great Bell.”

“No.”

“‘At hand is Death’s Deliverance. Love’s final gift before the dance.’ This is my Resonant duty, just as singing to the stars is yours.”

_ “No. _ That’s not what that means. You’ve kept me alive all these months—I’m not letting you die, either.”

“Everyone dies, my Dae.”

Tears slip over Jongdae’s beautiful cheekbones. “Not you,” he insists. “Not for me.”

“Not for you,” Minseok lies, absorbing the tears into the sueded leather over his thumbs. “For Elyxion. For Meokmul and Huchu, Sejeong and Sehun, Jongin and Taemin, your father and sister. For everyone. For the Supreme Resonance.”

“Minseok,” Jongdae sobs, crumpling against his shoulder. “My Seok. How can I let you sacrifice yourself? How can I run through empty ruins knowing that as I sing, you’re dying? How can I save a world that'll not have you in it?”

“With strength and courage,” Minseok states. “With mettle and resolve. You’ll do this, my Dae,  _ our _ Dae, because you must. You’ll do it properly, because I’m not spending my life for you to fail.”

“No,” Jongdae says again, voice round and firm and Resonant in a way that shivers Minseok’s heart. “I refuse to accept this. If I’m the Great Bell, the Clef, the Spark of Life, Elyxion’s Hope, there must be another way—some way to use these stones, some way to Resonate, some way to complete this task without sacrificing any more lives to these shadows. If I’m to save all of Elyxion, surely I can save the one I love.”

“I'll not let the shadows take me,” Minseok assures him. “I’ll hold off as long as I can, but when the end is inevitable I’ll sing forth all of my fire. My body will be right there, intact, waiting for you to send me to the dance.”

Jongdae shakes his head. “You promised, Seok. You promised to always choose life.”

“I am choosing life,” Minseok says, smile soft as he wipes away fresh tears. “I’m choosing yours. I’m choosing all of Elyxion. And I’m choosing my own death—death is a part of life. It’s been my entire life. I fear it not. If High Cantor Changmin was like my father, then death is my mother. It’ll be like going home.”

_ “I’m _ your home.”

“You’re my heart. So long as you live, my heart will be alive.”

“I refuse to accept this.” Jongdae glares when Minseok opens his mouth. “No. Not today. We’re exhausted and hungry and I’m not saying goodbye to you right now. Not like this. We’re going back to the crossroads and we’ll camp, we’ll eat and love each other like none of this is happening.” 

Minseok nods, willing to grant his only love this last comfort. He goes along as Jongdae stomps back down the lychway, unprotesting of the too-tight grip on his forearm.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Jongdae has sacrificed  _ enough. _ He’s not giving up Minseok. Surely that's not what the Resonance requires. There’s no possible way Jongdae can simply kiss his beloved goodbye and then calmly walk off to sing Resonance requiring perfect pitch and timing without sobbing himself hoarse. It’s impractical as well as cruel.

He feels strongly that he and Minseok are meant to be together, meant to be in love, meant to be the Clef and Stave redamant of the prophecy. So it makes zero sense that Jongdae’s meant to fall for Minseok, then suffer such a distracting, debilitating trauma as losing him right when he’s meant to be singing clearly instead of bawling brokenly. The line Minseok quoted as justification for his sacrifice must point to something else.

Jongdae puts it out of his head for a while, long enough to spoil Minseok with a hot meal and rub all the knots and fatigue from his muscles.

“I should be doing this for you,” Minseok protests. “You’re the one who’s going to need—”

“Seok. You’ve taken perfect care of me for the last five months. Please. This once, just let me fuss over you.”

Minseok’s eyes go soft and Jongdae's powerless against it. He kisses his beloved, eyes squeezed shut to block the tears, then all but shoves him down on the sealskins to adore him with hands and mouth, to hold him on the edge of climax for what Jongdae wishes was eternity. He keeps himself there, too, not willing to fall into bliss without his brave, beautiful beloved. If they’re both going to sob their way through this encounter, it’s going to be for reasons of need and frustration, not in mourning for an imminent farewell Jongdae's determined to prevent.

As seems to happen more and more frequently when they couple, their shouts of release harmonize and Resonate, setting Jongdae’s body tingling from hair to toenails. He can tell that Minseok feels it, too, by the way energy sparks between their lips when they kiss, like the snap of static on a dry winter day. It only strengthens the resolve in Jongdae’s heart. Their love is blessed. This is  _ meant. _ He’ll not throw away the greatest gift he’s ever received.

So when Minseok drops into slumber, warm and heavy against Jongdae’s shoulder, Jongdae waits, fighting his own drowsiness with images of Minseok being overrun by shadows. Then he slips from beneath his beloved Seokkie and grabs his clothes and his staff, pulling them on and slipping around to lean against Tan’s other side, hoping her body will keep the light out of Minseok’s face.

“I’m not letting him die, Tannie,” he assures the idly curious tundra cat. 

She closes those uncanny aurora-green eyes and lays her massive head on her front paws, turned sideways to accommodate her elongated fangs. Taking this for approval, Jongdae gets to work, poring over the scroll he’d painstakingly copied the prophecy on to. There must be something there. There  _ must. _

_ While shadows threaten to advance _ _  
_ _ At hand is death’s deliverance _ __  
_ Love’s final gift before the dance _ _  
_ _ Heart sings to heart in Resonance!_

No matter how hard he scowls at the vellum, the words never change. 

His scowling is interrupted when Tan shifts at his back, lifting her head to gaze intently into the lightening blue. Minseok, always in tune with his companion, immediately grabs his staff in one hand and his undertrousers in the other. In the absence of an immediate threat, he abandons the staff in favor of pulling on his clothes, eyes flicking from Tan to where she’s staring.

It more than breaks Jongdae’s heart the way Minseok slots himself against his side the moment he’s dressed. He fits so perfectly there. It feels so right to have his beloved’s heart so close to his own, to feel, even through layers of wool and leather, the way his side inflates with each breath. Alive. Jongdae’s.  _ Alive. _

Jongdae’d not consciously decided to wrap an arm around Minseok’s waist, pressing their bodies together. But he’s sure as all bells not going to let his Seokkie go.

Tan seems not so much alarmed as alert, but the hairs on the back of Jongdae’s neck are standing tall. Something’s moving in the twilight, but not the writhing slither of the shadows. This is a purposeful drift, a shifting of shades, dozens, hundreds, led by a gauzy silhouette that’s as familiar to Jongdae as his own name.

“Jongdeok.”

His voice cracks on the second syllable, suddenly supported by Minseok’s sturdy arm around his torso. There’s no definition to the shade at the head of the congregation, just a vague human shape like all the rest. But something about the way it moves, the set of those diaphanous shoulders, makes Jongdae lightning sure he’s face to face with his older brother.

“There are so many of them, Seok,” Jongdae breathes, hardly able to add sound to his whisper. “So many waiting to join the dance.”

“‘While shadows threaten to advance, at hand is Death’s Deliverance,’” Minseok quotes. “Dae. They’ve been waiting for you. The dead delivering the living from peril. Giving you some final gift before they go.”

“It was never you, you noble, self-sacrificing clapper.”

Minseok’s laugh is shaky. “Still glad I’m here, though.”

“Bells, me, too.”

Giving his Seok a squeeze, Jongdae disentangles himself and steps forward, standing before this echo of his brother.

“I miss your frozen feet,” he huffs, not at all sure what to say but just as sure that he’s meant to say something. 

The shade ducks his head, then lifts an indistinct hand to his throat.

“I’m ready,” Jongdae says, tugging his collar away from the Soundbow locked around his throat, feeling the first rays of the sun touch patches of skin through the filigree.

The shade makes an X with nebulous arms, then reaches a wavering fingertip out to touch Jongdae’s throat, causing part of the Soundbow to flash ice cold against his skin. The shade withdraws at Jongdae’s involuntary gasp, then gestures toward Minseok, toward the bleak, and sets a chill palm over Jongdae’s thudding heart.

An eerie keen slices through the air, a simple arpeggio drawn out into something like a wail. It’s a cry from one mourning spirit to another, and it sets Jongdae’s skull Resonating beneath his scalp until it dies away.

“Wow, all right, what was that for?”

The keen shivers down the length of Jongdae’s spine this time, and then the legion of shades begins drifting away, leaving one smaller, decidedly feminine silhouette separated from the rest.

Jongdae’s throat, still burning from the chill of his brother’s touch, all but closes.

“Mom?” he forces out, stepping toward the shade.

Again the keen stabs into Jongdae’s heart, somehow rounder and softer like his mother’s warm alto had been. It’s the same notes, the same aching wail, yet it sends memories of his mother’s voice echoing through his mind.

_ Love you so much. So proud of you. Farewell. _

And then the sun lifts high enough to send bright bronze stinging into Jongdae’s eyes. By the time he rubs them clear, the shades are gone.

But Minseok's there, and his arms are tight around Jongdae before the first sob escapes his throat.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Jongdae’s unresistant as Minseok leads him back to their sleeping furs, pulls off his outerwear, and rolls him beneath the fleece. Minseok holds his love close against his heart, lets him release pent up mourning, stress, fear. He says nothing but simply waits, fighting his natural inclination toward hustling as the sun lifts higher. 

Jongdae’s breakdown lasts but a few moments. His face relaxes, then goes pensive, almost stern.

“You’re staying alive,” he states flatly, no room for any disagreement. “I know not what the bells just happened, but you’re not going to sacrifice yourself. I need you, Seok. Need you alive.”

Minseok can only smile, thumbing away the last of Jongdae’s tears. “If my love needs me at his side, his side is where I’ll be.”

“You’d better,” Jongdae huffs, then presses insistent lips against Minseok’s.

The kiss is almost punishing, an absolute statement of ownership, of determination. Minseok responds eagerly, complying easily when Jongdae pushes Minseok onto his back, strips them both of clothing, reaches for the pot of lanolin. He merely cants his hips to accept his love more readily when he pushes inside, gazes up at his willful lover as he’s jostled firmly against the sealskins.

“You belong in my arms,” Jongdae tells him when they’re lying spent and sticky. “I belong in yours. We’re staying together. Alive.”

“I’m forever yours, my Dae,” Minseok assures him, fingers tangled in Jongdae’s hair.

“Promise you'll not sacrifice yourself for me.”

“I’ll not.”

“Fine. Promise you'll not recklessly or needlessly sacrifice yourself for anything other than an immediate lethal threat neither of us can counter in any other way.”

Minseok smiles against Jongdae’s lips. “That I’ll swear to. I’ll not leave you alone if I can at all help it.”

“I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get,” Jongdae huffs, but he’s smiling, too, as their lips move together.

“So now what?” Minseok asks when they finally break apart.

Jongdae sighs. “I know clapping not. My brother, he… his shade. He touched me twice—”

“The first time, when he touched the Soundbow, one of the filigree loops froze over. Right in the middle.”

“So I’m missing a stone?”

“Well. I guess that answers whether the Aeolian stone's truly purple or merely a purplish blue.”

“It’s twilight colored. I thought that meant it was the last.”

“It seems logical. But why else would your brother’s shade touch the Soundbow?”

“I thought he was just touching my throat.”

“He touched your chest, too.”

Jongdae nods. “His name—Jongdeok—the first syllable means ‘bell’ like mine does, but the last one—it’s usually interpreted as ‘virtue’ but it can also mean ‘heart.’ Not actually the one in your chest, but courage. Determination.”

“So he was referencing his own name?”

“What else would it be?”

“The temple at Locris is called that of the Silent Heart. He touched your throat and chest, and that’s the last of the original seven bells, right?”

Jongdae sighs. “I’m going to be so unhappy if we get all the way to Locris and there's no stone to be found.”

“But they sang the ward,” Minseok points out. “That’s how we’ll find it—simply sing at everything until something glows. It’s not a big place.”

Jongdae turns to regard him with a raised brow. “You recognized that keening song?”

Minseok nods. “Well. I’ve never heard it sung like that, but that’s the pattern of the warding chant I use to make the circle.”

“The one that says we’re dead?”

Minseok nods again. “Perhaps—if it’s sung, no circle's needed? I mean, Walkers are known not for their ability to sing, but we all need to protect ourselves and our charges. But with the stone instead of a circle, and the keen instead of the chant… would the shadows try to snuff the life of one they perceived as already dead?”

Jongdae sucks in a breath, holds it for a while, then exhales slowly. “Minseok. You might be the most brilliant person I’ve ever met.”

Cheeks hot, Minseok buries his face against Jongdae’s neck. “I’m only a simple Walker. You’re the brilliant one.”

“We’ll argue this forever.”

Minseok turns his smile into a kiss. “I know. I look forward to it.”

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Everyone who’s been there has told Jongdae that Locris is eerily beautiful, white stone blending with perpetual ice. But they also say that it’s unsettling as all bells and that it’s deep up the backside of nowhere, accessible by one proper road and a much more often-used lychway. 

It’s of course the lychway they use, the crunching of their feet in the snow the only muffled sounds. The thick layer of powder blanketing everything even in late spring seems to swallow all noise, and this trait along with the location atop the peak of the glacier covering all of Elyxion give the temple its name.

There's no life-supporting reason to have a settlement here. Locris mines no resources, raises no food, produces no goods. Entirely supported by the rest of Elyxion, it exists only for the dead, to produce Snow Walkers hardy enough to traverse the bleak without failing their charges with their own demise. For the first few years of their duties, Snow Walkers do travel in pairs, but it’s astonishing how few Walkers succumb to the dangers of the bleak once they’re deemed fit for duty. 

The Temple of the Silent Heart may send many trainees down the lychway wrapped in evenweave, but Walkers almost always retire before they die.

Those retirees become the instructors that train their replacements, feed the trainees, make the attire that keeps them warmer than any other. There are usually only a few hundred permanent residents aside from the trainees, but as Minseok and Jongdae pass through the lychgate into Locris, they join quite the crowd.

“The Walkers all came home,” he notes softly.

Minseok smiles. “Where else would we go? The ones who volunteered may’ve gone to their families at first, but their visits would generally be limited to the lychgate unless their loved ones smuggled them into town. The only place we’re truly welcome is the Silent Heart.”

The courtyard is full of companions as well as Walkers, playing together in the afternoon sun. Jongdae has seen winter wolves from afar, but he’s never seen a snow bear. There are three in the courtyard, dozing in a pile beneath several wolves that are much larger than the wild pack that’d harried them in Aeolis, better fed or better bred, Jongdae’s not sure. There are several tundra cats in addition to the one following noiselessly at their heels, but they’re spread out alone or in pairs, the occasional trio grooming each other while absorbing the warmth collected by the dark flagstones.

The idle Walkers are sparring or otherwise exercising, maintaining the fitness they’ll need once they’re once again able to perform their duties. Except for an older man, wrapped in a finely-knit shawl, that seems to be waiting for them.

“When our Walkers came in with reports that Dominari had fallen, that they were unable to deliver the silenced, I knew the time of the prophecy was at hand. And when I walked the walls this morning and saw two men approaching on the lychway but a single companion, I wondered if today was the day I’d meet the Spark.”

“It’s an honor, High Cantor,” Jongdae says, inclining his head respectfully.

“The honor is mine, oh Great Bell. But come—let us retire to my chambers where it’s warm. And call me Leeteuk. I presume your parents call you something aside from Elyxion’s Hope?”

“Not exactly,” Jongdae sighs. “My father named me Jongdae.”

High Cantor Leeteuk laughs as he ushers them into the temple. “A bit on the nose, but who can blame a father for pride in his son? I name each of my children with a bit of hubris myself. A strong person needs a strong name, right, Minseok?”

“I appreciate mine,” Minseok answers. 

“It suits you,” Jongdae tells his beloved, not for the first time. 

“Changmin chose well,” the High Cantor agrees. “Here we are—please be comfortable.”

Jongdae fails to realize that Tan had followed them into the building until she shoulders past him to hop up onto a huge circular cushion already occupied by a smaller tundra cat. They trade rumbling sounds before the smaller one pushes Tan over and begins grooming her ears.

“Her mother,” Minseok explains, smile on his lips as he watches the pair.

“Spoiled, bossy old lady,” High Cantor Leeteuk huffs as he settles into a well-padded chair. “Thank you for bringing her a fresh victim to bully so she’ll leave this old man in peace.”

Minseok’s fond eyeroll belies the High Cantor’s words, and Jongdae fails to hide his smile as he settles onto a bench beside his love.

“Thank you for your time and hospitality,” Jongdae says as Minseok spreads a fleece over their legs. He’s not quite cold enough to truly need it, but he welcomes it anyway, loving that Minseok cares for his comfort, loving that he’s still fussing over him in front of the man who’s the closest thing he has to family. Or at least, the closest thing he’d had until Jongdae’s family had decided to basically adopt him.

“You act like it’s some huge honor, when you’re the one about to save us all,” the High Cantor chuckles. “The very least I can do is feed and house you while you perform whatever part of the prophecy has you trekking all the way to the Silent Heart.”

“I’m looking for a stone,” Jongdae says, launching into his usual explanation of the size and shape. “It might be purple, or perhaps clear?”

“Hmm. I’ve seen no such thing, but of course you’re welcome to search for it anywhere you think it likely. And I’ll gather all the brothers and sisters to ask if they’ve ever encountered such a thing.”

“I’ll look for it at night—the other stones revealed themselves when I sang out Resonance nearby.”

“Ah, well, that should make for an interesting evening,” the High Cantor smiles. “In the mean time, indulge an old shut-in and tell me of recent events. Is it true Dominari was overrun by the crawling dark? We sing the prophecy our whole lives, but never did I think to actually see it come to pass.”

“Dominari is indeed overrun,” Jongdae says, having to swallow twice around the sudden lump in his throat before he can relate the rest of the tale. 

When he’s finished, the High Cantor leans across the taut leather tabletop between them and sets a bony hand on Jongdae’s shoulder.

“Our brave Spark. How you’ve suffered for us all. I’m so honored that one of our Walkers has been such a helpmate to you—we live to serve the dead, yes, but ultimately to serve the living. They can move on with their lives knowing we ensure their loved one moves on after theirs. By sending each of our charges safely to the dance, we give their loved ones comfort enough to carry on without them.”

Jongdae nods. “I do feel guilty for diverting Walker Minseok from his duties. I intend to spoil him with food and rest when our quest is complete, but I’ll not attempt to keep him from his sworn tasks overlong.”

“The Resonance gave him to you, just as his parents once surrendered him to us. He's yours for as long as the Spark requires.”

“I’d love to keep him forever,” Jongdae laughs. “But he chafes at idleness. Much as you love me, you’d not stay just for my amusement, would you?”

“I’ll enjoy every journey to Dominari that much more, knowing you’re there and safe. But my life has never been my own, and I’ll not shirk my Resonance-given purpose.”

Jongdae shakes his head fondly, then lifts his gaze to High Cantor Leeteuk. “No mother ever had such a dutiful son.”

“Indeed not,” the High Cantor agrees. “But there are loyalties stronger than duty, so we shall see what Walker Minseok’s future truly holds.”

“Walrus steak, for one thing,” Jongdae states. “With the blubber still on, cooked tender until it renders through all the meat. And a soft, fluffy bed. Warm baths, and warm toes, and warm nights uninterrupted by the howling of wolves.”

High Cantor Leeteuk laughs. “May all of our futures be so, Resonance willing.”

“Resonance willing,” Jongdae agrees, and never before has the phrase sounded so much like a prayer.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Minseok had been raised in the Temple of the Heart for more than a dozen years, but he’s never gotten used to the place at night. Perhaps it’s the held-over imagination of a child that sees shifting in every shadow, but it’s definitely  _ not _ his imagination when Jongdae sings out the keen and dies.

Or rather,  _ looks _ dead.

It still feels like Minseok’s own heart has stopped to see his love bloodless pale with clouded eyes, limbs suddenly far too narrow for his clothing, glove gaping around a skeletal wrist.

“What’s the matter?” Jongdae’s jaw creaks, tongue black. “Seokkie, are you ill?”

_ Only ill at heart. _

Minseok shakes his head. “You, um. Look like a corpse. When you keen. It’s fading now.”

It’s with more than a little relief that Minseok watches Jongdae’s face plump, lips once again pink and elastic when he smiles.

“That must be horrible to look at. You try it—I wish to see.”

“So eager to see me dead, love?”

“Not at all,” Jongdae says, stepping close to steal a kiss. “But there are all these rumors, you know. About Walkers being the silenced that never sleep. Perhaps this is why? I mean, have you ever seen a Walker or companion from outside their warded circle?”

Minseok shakes his head. “Only wrapped in furs, companion reclining with them. If an animal is shaggy and has eyes closed, death is not immediately apparent.”

“Well, I bet people have at some point. And that’s why that woman in Phrygia asked me if you had a nose.”

Minseok laughs. “Well. If you’re so eager to see, please inspect my nose for yourself.”

He keens, watching Jongdae closely as he does. Jongdae’s horrified face makes Minseok step forward instinctively to comfort him, and for that he has the curious pleasure of seeing Jongdae force himself not to step back.

“Sorry,” Minseok says, aware that he’s probably not the most comforting figure at the moment.

“It’s all right—it’s fading. Bells, Seokkie.”

Now it’s Jongdae who steps forward, wrapping Minseok in a squeezing embrace. “All right, new plan—we do this side by side, and we’ll not look at each other.”

“Works for me.” 

Minseok takes Jongdae’s hand when he’s released from the embrace, strolling along the walls, keening occasionally. Nothing happens—no glow, no gut feelings, nothing. Well, except for the change in appearance, not that Minseok’s looked over at Jongdae to check.

Jongdae’s movements are slower and slower, and eventually he comes to a stop. Minseok turns to look at him, afraid he’s somehow gotten too cold or tired despite the moderate temperature and their rest that afternoon.

A bare skull stares back.

The jaw is hanging slack but begins to creak as Minseok stares, enough sinew now present to enable it to move.

“Seokkie,” it says, consonants indistinct without a tongue. If Minseok’d not heard that name so often in a strangled moan, he’d never have recognized it.

“I’m here,” Minseok says, carefully setting a hand on Jongdae’s shoulder, a bit afraid of doing him harm. “It’s wearing off, Dae, fret not. Patience, my love. There—your tongue’s back.”

“Bells,” Jongdae uses his tongue to enunciate. “Seok, I could only hear the rushing of wind or water. Like the world was a walrus-hide cord plucked while dampered.”

“The price of emulating the silenced must be silence,” Minseok says, watching with some sick fascination as the face he loves reforms. “Perhaps that’s enough for one night.”

Jongdae’s nod is stiff. His movements are stiff, too, as they make their way to the sleeping cell they’d left their furs in. Tan’s already curled up on them, and she hisses at Jongdae a little when they enter the room.

“It’s still Dae,” Minseok chides. “Only he’s not quite himself at the moment.”

This draws a clicking laugh from Jongdae’s dessicated throat.

Minseok helps Jongdae undress, advising him not to look down at his still-recovering body. He tucks him in their furs and cuddles close, lecturing himself that he’d held Jongdae’s body while it’d been unoccupied by his spirit, and that at least this version of Jongdae can talk to him, shows more signs of life despite looking more deceased.

It’s silent for a moment, then Jongdae chuckles low in his throat. “Seokkie… Are you not going to put me to bed  _ properly?” _

“No.”

“C’mon… should we not at least check to see if all my body parts are present?”

“No.”

“I wonder what that’d look like? Would it work, if I’m Resonating bloodless right now?”

“I’ve truly no care to find out.”

“Not even a little curious?”

“No.”

“Seok—”

“Chenny!” Minseok huffs, then bronzes himself to place a kiss on a cheek the texture of old vellum. “Sleep, my love. If you’ve recovered by morning, you can wake me up however you like.”

Jongdae’s laugh implies morning mischief is to be expected.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

It’s a relief to open his eyes to find Minseok smiling at him as always. Despite his flippant remarks the night before, Jongdae had been more than a little unnerved to see Minseok as silenced, to feel himself grind to a halt, bare bone on bare bone. And Minseok’s eyes, while not repulsed, had been filled with the closest thing he’s shown Jongdae to fear. Like when the shadows had been in their path. Like when Jongdae had sung all the heat from his body or the air from his lungs.

Why must using the Resonance steal the light from his Seokkie’s eyes?

_ Not using, _ he lectures himself.  _ Overusing. _ Had Sehun not whistled up the wind all the time with no ill effects?

But there’s no time for moderation. He must find this last stone and get back to Dominari before the shadows spill over into Yon and Dorus, into Phrygia, into the rest of Elyxion. He has a sudden vision of them tumbling into the Gullet, filling it up while Meokmul and Huchu scream.

There’s the fear again, that little furrow between Minseok’s eyes. He’s never afraid of anything, unless Jongdae’s somehow under threat.

“Chenny?”

“Seokkie.” Jongdae smiles, only a little forced at first. The relief flooding Minseok’s face easily makes it genuine. Especially when Minseok’s smile becomes more of a smirk.

“Were you not going to wake me up?”

Jongdae leans in to press his smirk against Minseok’s. “You seem to already be awake. As usual. Perhaps you should’ve woken  _ me _ up.”

“You needed your sleep.”

“Well, now I need something else.”

He rolls his body against Minseok’s, proving that whatever had happened to him in the dead of night, all his parts are in full working order this morning. Minseok hums, pulling him closer with an arm around his waist.

“I suppose I can indulge you.”

He does, and then the pair of them doze in each other’s arms for a bit before Tan rumbles in dissatisfaction, pawing at the door.

“Yes, my hungry helper. I’ll let you out and make sure you’re fed. Only let me find some pants,” Minseok yawns, then chuckles at the pouty face Jongdae makes when he tries to leave the furs. “Two demanding cats,” he huffs. “I've already attended to you this morning. It’s Tannie’s turn.”

Jongdae whines a little at that, but he’s all proud smiles after breakfast when Minseok's asked to coach the trainees in thrumming. 

“You always were the best at it,” the High Cantor coaxes. 

“He truly is,” Jongdae agrees, earning himself a dirty look.

But Minseok can hardly refuse, so Jongdae has the distinct pleasure of watching his lover teach the next generation of Walkers how to save their own lives.

“I’m glad he found you,” the High Cantor of the Heart murmurs to Jongdae as they stand at the half-wall of the low gallery above the courtyard, overlooking Minseok’s impromptu survival class. “He truly is the best of his lot, and it’s nice to see him able to live up to his full potential.”

Jongdae smiles. “I’m so fortunate to have him by my side.”

The High Cantor nods. “I’d always thought that, when he retired, he’d be one of our best instructors.”

“He still may,” Jongdae says. “He seems to be enjoying himself.”

But the High Cantor shakes his head. “The Stave aligns with the Clef,” he states. “His melody runs parallel to yours.”

Jongdae shrugs. “If that’s what the Resonance wills, I’ll not complain. But it’ll not be my own will that keeps him from his calling.”

“Yet a skilled conductor may change a peal from doubles to triples halfway through,” the High Cantor says, soft eyes meeting Jongdae’s. “And the Resonance is the most skillful conductor of all.”

Unsure of the proper response to this, Jongdae only nods. The two of them stand unspeaking at the wall after that, feeling the pulses of heat rise from the courtyard along with the thrum Resonating in two dozen throats.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Every night for almost a week, Minseok escorts Jongdae around the temple he was raised in, cautioning him against keening too often despite Jongdae’s growing impatience. They generally only make it an hour or two before Jongdae’s pseudo-silenced bones are too stiff to move well and Minseok must scold him into bed.

During the days, Minseok assists the instructors with the trainees, lending his practical demonstrations to the lectures of the retired Walkers. He rather likes helping out, especially with the children, though he does not look forward to his shift from the bleak to the classroom. His time with Jongdae has rendered him too soft, and he knows he’ll be unable to remain detached from his young students. It’ll pain him each time one fails to return from training exercises, as if he’d personally failed them.

Growing up, neither he or his fellows had ever blamed the instructors for the loss of one of their number. It was always a sad fact that the silenced trainee had failed to learn well enough what had been taught, or had suffered misadventure that prevented them from using it. But Minseok wonders now if that’s how the instructors had truly felt. Perhaps they’d been hiding their own sense of guilt. Or perhaps they’d truly felt nothing.

Perhaps Walking the bleak without Jongdae will re-freeze Minseok’s thawed heart. Especially if someone else ends up warming Jongdae’s bed.

In the meantime, Minseok will be as good an escort to the Spark as possible,  _ his _ Spark, at least for now. He’ll counter Jongdae’s stubbornness before he does himself harm, force patience on him, ensure he eats well, sleeps enough. And ensure he’ll not get lost in the maze-like base of the temple, where delivered goods are stored for future use, enough to last out the longest winter storm without supply deliveries from the rest of Elyxion.

“What the bells is  _ that?” _

Minseok pulls his eyes from Jongdae’s semi-skeletal face to follow his gaze, brow furrowing to see nothing amiss in the long corridor.

“That statue,” Jongdae clarifies. “Do you actually have a statue of a silenced right by the infirmary?”

Minseok’s brows lift with understanding. “Ah, no—that’s old Transience.”

“Old who?”

“The statue’s called ‘The Nature of Transience,’ and it only looks silenced from the direction of the sepulchre. Look—from the perspective of the recovery ward, it’s hale and whole, see?”

Minseok maneuvers Jongdae slowly around to see the white stone figure from the opposite side. He’s clad in furs like a Walker, arm held outstretched as if to fend off the inevitable. From the side of the infirmary, the figure seems to represent any of them, gender indistinct in bulky clothing and close-drawn hood. But from the opposite perspective, the figure’s face is all but skeletal, a reminder that sooner or later, they’ll make their final journey through the bleak as someone else’s ward.

Jongdae shuffles back and forth in front of the statue, watching the face shift from living to dead and back again.

“That’s creepy as all bells,” he declares, pausing directly in front of the figure and staring at the half-whole, half-skeletal face. “And creepier that your infirmary is right next to the sepulchre.”

Minseok shrugs. “It’s convenient.”

“It’s depressing.”

“Death and life are close companions,” Minseok states. Then he smiles. “Look at the pair of us.”

Jongdae snorts, then keens again, leering at Minseok as he does.

But Minseok’s distracted from his lover’s teasing by an eerie violet glow from old Transience’s skeletal eye socket.

“What the bells?” Jongdae steps closer, movements choppy. “There’s no stone, Seok. What’s glowing if there’s no stone?”

“There’s no stone on the surface,” Minseok corrects. “In Phrygia, it was secreted within the Vortex—perhaps this is similar.”

He releases Jongdae’s arm to climb carefully onto the low dais, then use the statue’s outstretched arm to pull himself up closer to the face. The eye socket is still glowing faintly, and Minseok pulls off his glove with his teeth in order to insert a bare finger into the cavity.

Something hard slides away from his probing finger.

“Definitely something in there,” Minseok announces as he drops back to the floor. “I’m unable to grab it, though. And we should try not to destroy the statue if we can help it.”

“Could we blow it out, like in Phrygia?”

Minseok shakes his head. “There’s only one opening. We need some long thin object. Perhaps two?”

“In Yon, we used tongs to add ingots to the crucibles.”

“We 've no crucibles here—oh!”

Minseok ducks into the infirmary and heads toward the surgery. Laid out neatly between two sheets of evenweave are an array of surgical instruments, and Minseok selects a bronze clamp with long, slightly curved jaws. Returning to the statue, he climbs up again, reaching into the eye socket with his appropriated tool.

It takes several tries—he’s not able to see into the skull and has to learn to feel when something is caught between the metal jaws—but eventually he catches hold of his prize and manages to extract it. He drops it into Jongdae’s outstretched glove, grinning in triumph when a gentle keen sets the purple stone aglow.

Jongdae’s face is gaunt black leather stretched over too-prominent white teeth, but giddy triumph makes Minseok lean in to press a kiss against his cheekbone anyway.

“Now, to bed with you. You  _ truly  _ need your beauty sleep.”

Jongdae’s whine of offense is overdyed by his joyful laugh.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(ⵔ)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

It’s the medic that sets the purple stone into the loop of filigree Jongdeok’s icy finger had outlined. She’s a bit annoyed that they’d dirtied one of her surgical tools to retrieve the stone, but then shrugs and uses the same tool to grasp and bend the filigree where needed and pinch it into place around the facets.

“What’s the point of this pretty bauble, anyway?” she asks as she hands it back to Jongdae.

Jongdae frowns down at the spectrum-adorned Soundbow in his hands. “I actually know not.”

With the exception of glowing or getting warm, the stones had seemed to do nothing special so far.

“But now you’ve all seven, Dae,” Minseok says as if reading his mind. “‘Spark scattered stars shall constellate, brought forth again to Resonate, right?”

He takes the Soundbow from Jongdae’s slack fingers and steps behind him to set it in place around his neck. Warm, sturdy fingers ensure each link's resting comfortably against Jongdae’s skin before the lock clicks, the sound loud in the quiet of the infirmary.

Jongdae yelps as a shivering tingle shoots from the lock at the nape of his neck along his spine and back again, sparkling reverberations like ripples of water bouncing off the edge of a basin.

"Are you all right? Did I pinch your skin?"

Jongdae shakes his head. "Just a little Resonance. I'm fine."

Minseok's breath huffs out and he pats Jongdae’s shoulders. He presses a brief kiss to Jongdae’s cheekbone, making the medic lift a brow at them. 

“Retired already?”

Suddenly there’s way too much space between them.

“No, of course not—I’ll be back to my duties as soon as there’s again somewhere to deliver the silenced to.”

“So this break in service is an excuse to break vows?”

“I’ve kissed you far more intimately—there are no vows against that.”

“Yet you never looked at me like that. The fact that you’re defensive about it is ample evidence of your guilt.”

That’s the end of Jongdae’s patience for standing idly by. “Minseok’s guilty of nothing,” he asserts, taking Minseok’s hand. “He’s fulfilling the prophecies, just as I am. The Stave and Clef are meant to be redamant.”

The medic snorts. “Well redamant, I see.” She shrugs in the face of Jongdae’s set jaw. “Evidently the High Cantor cares not. So what do I care, as long as the world is saved?”

She offers a half-smile, and Minseok returns it. Jongdae fails to suppress his guarded expression as Minseok leads him away.

“You’re not breaking any vows,” he murmurs as they round the corner to their room.

“I know,” Minseok says, evidently much less affected than Jongdae by the medic’s words.

“You’re amazing, and I love you.”

“You’re the amazing one, and I love you, too.” Minseok brings Jongdae’s neatly-folded but still bulky outerwear to him, dark eyes searching his face. “You all right, Chenny?”

Jongdae slumps, pressing his forehead to Minseok’s shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just hate when people are unable to appreciate how absolutely awe-inspiring you are.”

Minseok laughs, bright and warm. “Dae, you see me composed of the colors of the sunrise, but that makes it not false when others see me beneath the light of full day.”

Stubborn, Jongdae shakes his head. “You’re composed of every color, Seokkie. You’re beautiful and striking and bright and perfect and—”

Jongdae could listen to Minseok laugh all day, even when it’s in conflict with his current mood. “Chenny. I already adore you. You needn’t to go on like this.” He presses the furs into Jongdae’s grasp, stealing a lingering kiss. “Snow Walkers are used to scorn—it never bothers me what anyone says. I’m true to the Resonance and to you, and that’s all that matters.”

“I suppose,” Jongdae mutters, pulling on his outerwear along with Minseok. “Why are we dressing? Surely we’re not setting off for Dominari in the middle of the day.”

“I thought we might visit the nearest training ground. See if anything’s changed now that the Soundbow holds all the stones.”

Jongdae snorts. “I’m not to set Locris on fire?”

“Considering it’s made of stone, all you’d do is burn up all the supplies and things… though that’d kill us all just the same, considering how far we are from anywhere else.”

“That… was meant to be humorous. But fine, let’s go to these training grounds.”

Minseok smiles. “I’m excited to see what you can do.”

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

It turns out that Jongdae can do exactly what he could before, with one notable improvement—With all seven stars twinkling Resonant at the Spark’s throat, the price of pushing Resonance has been reduced to almost nothing. Minseok watches as Jongdae sings fireballs without freezing, lilts light without being blinded, whistles up winds without losing his breath, and sings strength without exhaustion. They’ve nothing to heal, and spiritwalking had seemed to carry no cost, merely a risk of permanently separating soul from body. The keen still makes Jongdae look very dead, but he can still move and speak despite the apparent condition of his body.

“Seokkie, we did it. I can walk freely among the shadows. Relight the Tongues—where Life once burned, Death’s stand is made, to shadow Spark shall not succumb.”

“But remember what your father said—it might be explosive to relight them if whatever fuels the Tongues has leaked.”

“Well, perhaps I can blow any leaks away with enough wind? And I’ll be able to lift the rubble with the miner’s melody, light my way with the lilt.”

Minseok nods. “Perhaps the light’ll be enough to destroy the shadows? How do we keep them from snuffing the Tongues again?”

“Did they snuff the tongues? Or did the tongues fail, allowing the shadows to emerge?”

“I know not. But either way, it seems light and flame will be needed.”

“But what if light and flame alert them to my presence? Rather, that I’m a threat?”

“Then the Resonance will provide another way.”

Jongdae pouts but Minseok shuffles close to kiss it away, thrumming a bit to make his lips extra warm. “You’re meant to do this, Dae. You will. And I’ll be cheering you on.”

“You’ll be with me the whole time.”

But Minseok shakes his head, smile wry. “I'm unable to freely walk as the silenced the way you can with the Soundbow. But you’re very capable of succeeding on your own—I’ll wait for you on that ridge above the city.”

Jongdae shakes his head in turn. “Your body’s unable to function well while appearing dead, but you can walk with me in spirit. A shade among shadows.”

Minseok lifts his brows. “That does sound better than waiting alone and wondering. And I can ward myself, in case any shadows stray near.”

“Yes. You must stay safe, Seokkie. We must both survive this, so we can share world-saving sex afterward.”

This tugs a laugh from Minseok’s throat, forehead to forehead, nose to nose with the man who refuses to relinquish his claim on Minseok’s heart.

“I’ll look forward to that.” 

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Jongdae has never been so impatient to leave. The shadows are spreading, his family is waiting, and he’s succumbed to MInseok’s eyes in response to the High Cantor’s offer to feast them before they go.

Soundbow glittering around his throat, Jongdae sits at the head of the central table despite his attempts to demur. The High Cantor is to his right, Minseok's to his left, and the table's spread with salt mutton, dried bearberries, fish jerky, and sweetvetch roots.

All of Locris has turned out, not a large population nor a loud one, but evidently enjoying themselves all the same. They’re talking and laughing quietly, tossing tidbits of meat to their companions lounging around the edges of the courtyard. A trio with winter wolves seem to be attempting to one-up the others by coaxing their companions to do complicated tricks.

Jongdae supposes he’s happy to bring happiness to this all but desolate place, but he’s itching to do what he’s meant to do. He’s got the tools, he has Minseok, he just wishes this were over with already.

Except then he'll not have Minseok anymore.

No, he’ll still have Minseok. Minseok will always be his, even if they’re not sharing sleeping furs. He’ll get to see Minseok all the time, and he’ll make the most of his beloved’s visits. It’ll still be good. And perhaps, when things calm down, Minseok can stay for a while, so Jongdae can ensure he’s rested and fed well. So they can enjoy each other thoroughly.

So even though they go to bed late, Jongdae takes the time to pack all their stuff carefully before crawling into the furs beside a very amused, distractingly nude Minseok.

“We’re leaving first thing in the morning tomorrow, I take it?” he asks between kisses.

“The shadows have had Dominari for 5 months. They might’ve spread by now, to Yon or Dorus. It’s past time to end this.”

Minseok only hums and goads Jongdae with lips and tongue until Jongdae holds him down and gives them both pleasure, hard enough to punch hiccuping moans from Minseok’s beautiful chest. Their final sighs actually Resonate, making the stones around Jongdae’s neck flicker and glow to bounce a spray of colors across Minseok’s face.

“Seokkie. I love you so much.”

“Love you, too, Chenny.”

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

The morning dawns cold and cloudy, thunderheads rumbling ominously on the horizon. Minseok frowns at the sky, then at Jongdae who’s moved out at a much more rapid pace than usual.

Jongdae holds nothing back even though Minseok and Tan follow at a more reasonable pace. He moves with the urgency of someone who has a task and knows how to fulfill it, determined to get home, light the Tongues, release his mother and brother to the dance. But his escort is still hanging back, so Jongdae stops at the top of a slight rise, fingers flexing with impatience around his staff.

“If you burn yourself out early,” Minseok says with a gentle smile, “I’m still not carrying you.”

“Should I carry you, instead?” Jongdae asks, lifting a brow. “You’re moving so slowly today.”

“Well. Someone  _ did _ give their Stave quite the shafting.”

Jongdae instantly feels contrite. “Ah, Seokkie, are you sore? I’m sorry. Here, let me shanty it away—”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Minseok laughs. “I know you’re impatient, Chenny, but safe and steady is the Snow Walker way. We’re not Snow Runners.”

“I’m not a Walker. And you ran to save Yon. I’d run to save Dominari.”

Minseok smiles at Jongdae, adoring and indulgent. “We can pick the pace up a bit, perhaps enough to make an extra minim before nightfall. But let's accelerate, not rush.”

Jongdae feels like prancing and tossing his head like Stormy had, but he makes no argument. Minseok chuckles as Jongdae takes his arm and all but drags him down the lychway.

That night, Minseok brings him up to the very edge of ecstasy three times before letting him fall into paradise. Jongdae’s sure it’s to cause him to fall into a deep sleep rather than rolling around restlessly. It works, and when the morning comes Jongdae's full of energy despite the gray drizzle.

Minseok lets Jongdae set the pace, well-conditioned legs and bronze staff moving in concert to eat up the lychway. The rain has made everything slick, so the going is not as fast as Jongdae would like over the glacial corrugations. Finally, they reach flatter terrain and Jongdae breaks into a jog.

“Jongdae, slow down.”

“You hurry up. We’re well-rested, perhaps we can make two extra minims.”

“That’s not the point, the point is—”

But Jongdae learns the point the hard way. And the painful way. When the lychway falls away beneath his next step, and he tumbles down into darkness. 

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Minseok’s yell of alarm turns into a lilt as he drops to his knees beside the crevasse into which Jongdae had disappeared, needing to see where his impatient charge had ended up. By all the bells, why’d he not held Jongdae’s hand? Why’d the Resonance entrusted a fool like Minseok with the Hope of all Elyxion?

Jongdae’s staff glows much closer to the surface than Minseok had feared. And his heart can resume kicking away in his chest, because Jongdae's moving, caught by a ledge about two body-lengths below him.

“Clappers,” he coughs. “Knocked… the wind.”

“I’m going to knock your brains as soon as I haul your ass back up here. Can you wiggle your toes?”

“Yeah. Well. One set of toes. Holy bells it clapping  _ hurts.” _

“What hurts?”

“My leg. Hip? Shoulder, but not as much. Bells, I’m an idiot.”

“You’re alive,” Minseok says, “and that’s enough to redeem us both.”

He sings the shanty boldly, gritting his teeth when Jongdae’s pain spikes through his left leg, both shin and thigh, along with deeper aches on his left hip and shoulder. Leg broken, at least two places, badly bruised hip and shoulder, Minseok decides. Great. This would certainly not help Dae get where he’s so anxious to go.

Jongdae’s sigh is shuddering relief. “Wait—Seok. Oh, Seokkie, you should've let me suffer. Teach me a proper lesson.” His laugh is wheezy.

“It’s my duty to look after you. I failed. I suffer with you.”

He ignores Jongdae’s ongoing arguments and whistles for Tan, who easily leaps the crevasse, then looks down at Jongdae, head tilted as if she’s puzzled as to what the loud human's doing lying far below the surface of the snow.

“I know, we’re idiots,” Minseok huffs. He braces his staff across the gap, making sure it digs securely into firm ice beneath the layer of snow on either side. “Come on, do the thing with your leg. That’s it. Thank you, Tannie. Good girl.”

The tundra cat turns to flop down beside the staff, dangling one hind leg down into the crevasse. She digs in with her sharp, sturdy fangs as well as her claws, extending herself as a sort of living ladder. Minseok grips his staff and drops into the crevasse to dangle from it, exhaling when it holds firm. He carefully transfers his weight from the staff to Tan’s haunch, then her ankle, hating how she hisses but appreciating how she stays put regardless of the discomfort.

“Are you hurting our kitty?”

“Another sin on my shoulders, I’m afraid.”

Jongdae makes a saddish noise as Minseok stretches to his full length, then drops to the floor of the crevasse beside his charge.

“My leg still hurts like bells but I think I can bear weight on it.”

“Try not to. Let’s get out of here, then we’ll set it and see what else can be done.”

“I tried to sing the shanty but it seems not to work on myself, even with the Soundbow.”

“Makes sense—taking your own pain into yourself seems a bit redundant.” 

“I guess,” Jongdae laughs, but his face is pale and drawn. 

Minseok would sing more of his pain away, but he’s already on the borderline of functional with what he’d already drawn off. So instead he puts Jongdae’s brightly-glowing staff in his left hand and hauls him upright.

“Seok, I’m so sorry. All this because of my—”

“We can argue about whose fault it is later,” Minseok dismisses. “Use not your left leg unless you absolutely have to. I’ll boost you enough to get hold of Tan, as soon as you’re secure, tell her to P-U-L-L and she’ll claw her way up out of here and take you with her. She’ll hiss, but let it not startle you. Hold fast. We’ll give her the rest of the fish jerky in return for her assistance.”

Jongdae smiles. “And what about you?”

“You’ll lie prone on your belly, then reach down with your staff. I’ll use it and the walls for leverage and get hold of my own staff, then I’ll pull myself up and out. We train extensively for this—fret not about me.”

“All right,” Jongdae says, face unsure. But he lets Minseok help him hobble to the wall, tolerates being lifted, and apologizes repeatedly as he gets a secure squeezing grip around Tan’s ankle.

“Tannie, pull!” Jongdae calls up.

Minseok lifts higher as Tan scrabbles at the ice with claws made for the purpose. She hisses and Jongdae yells and then his ward is up out of the crevasse, the toe of a boot still visible for a moment. Then it disappears to be replace a moment later by Jongdae’s head and arms. Minseok tosses Jongdae’s staff up to him, and he catches it, then locks his fingers together around it and nods. Then he winces.

“Seok, Tannie’s squishing me.”

“She’s keeping you from falling back in—I told you, we train extensively for this. Now hold tight and it’ll be over soon.”

Jongdae nods again, then Minseok grabs the proffered staff, using it to pull himself up as he braces his legs on opposite walls of the crevasse. He hikes himself upwards four or five times before the gap becomes too wide to span, then makes one last upward tug with his right arm, stretching to catch hold of his staff still lying across the gap.

He shifts his hands along the staff until he reaches the icy edge, then summons the last of his strength to haul his aching body upward. Jongdae tugs at him, too, and soon the both of them are lying on their backs on the lychway, panting alternately. Tan snuffles at them, puffing out warm air through whiskers as she inspects the humans she travels with.

“I’m sweating already, Tannie, please stop blowing hot breath on me,” Jongdae whines, but his hand goes up to scratch at her ear.

“Right, well, I’m glad you’re warm because you’re about to strip your pants off so I can see how bad your leg is.”

“It honestly feels so much better already.”

“There’s no point in healing you at all if we’re healing the bones in the wrong place. Thrum if you need to, there’s plenty around here for Tannie to hunt for us if we run low on food.”

Grumbling, Jongdae nods, and soon he’s sitting bare-assed on their sleeping furs, still fully dressed on top. He’s got his oxdown underwear on one leg still, empty leg wadded up over his crotch in a way that makes Minseok snort.

“I’ve seen you nude many times before, why so shy now?”

“Uh, because shrinkage is never a good look on any guy?”

Minseok laughs, welcoming the distraction as he runs his hands firmly over Jongdae’s bare leg, feeling for any crunching or other signs of misalignment. 

“I think they’re pretty clean breaks. Which means that I should be able to heal you with the shanty, perhaps rest an hour, then we keep going.”

“Not too much—you’ve no one to share the burden with, and Yixing said—”

“Yixing said that trying to shanty away a lethal wound alone could kill someone, but a broken leg is hardly deadly unless I fail to get us moving again. I’d have suffered far worse if you’d have died in that fall, so let me embrace this pain.”

Jongdae still wears a scowl as Minseok sings. He does two vigorous waves of the shanty, absorbing enough pain to make tears prick at his eyes. He knows his own leg is whole, but he's reluctant to even look at it, half-convinced that it must be broken in half twice.

It’s worth it to watch Jongdae’s face relax, worth it to be able to hold him close, wrapped in the sealskins with Tan happily munching fish jerky by their side (and then spending the rest of the hour on an extensive bathing routine to right her human-mussed fur).

“So why is there a giant, hidden trap in the lychway, Seokkie?” Jongdae asks.

“Because it’s almost summer. The glacier melts a bit, possibly in other places enough that a stream builds up, erodes the ice with movement and temperature. But the snow here's far enough ‘downriver’ that it’s still present, even as the ice below it has been carved away. We call them ‘snow bridges’ and it’s one of the primary reasons we have staves—to test the snow in front of us to ensure it’s firm enough for feet.” 

“I can see how that’d be very useful. Rushing ahead of you in general seems unuseful. I’ve delayed us much more than if I’d have followed your lead.”

“I knew you were impatient and I knew bridges were likely in this terrain. I should’ve held on to you.”

“Let’s just agree that I need a lead rope like a half-trained reindeer and stop fretting in favor of kissing.”

Minseok rolls his eyes at Jongdae’s bouncing eyebrows, but lets himself be drawn in. Jongdae tastes of life, and Minseok's so grateful not to have lost this.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Feeling his bones knit together as Minseok sings is one of the oddest sensations Jongdae has ever experienced. Still, he’s more than grateful, insisting Minseok stop when the sensation ceases even though he’s still sore. He'll not let his beloved assume all his pain, especially when his injury is the result of his own hastiness.

Minseok, of course, views it as his own failure to keep Jongdae safe. And Jongdae hates that crease between his brows, that too-firm press of Minseok’s lips. So he kisses it away, keeps kissing even when Minseok shifts to put distance between their bodies, loops an arm around his waist to pull him close again.

“Chenny,” Minseok chuckles. “This is no time to make each other sleepy.”

“It’ll be invigorating?”

Minseok lifts a brow.

Jongdae pouts.

Minseok huffs, rolls his eyes, then kisses Jongdae again.

Jongdae smiles into it, humming happily as he tightens his arm around Minseok’s middle.

And Minseok, that calculating creature, indulges Jongdae, hands inside his underclothes, stroking heated flesh with a little sheepsfoot oil to add a delightful glide. He brings Jongdae to ecstasy with efficient movements, lips quirking into a satisfied smile when Jongdae convulses against him with a throaty moan of his name.

“Give me a moment,” Jongdae pants. “I’ll take care of you.”

“No need,” Minseok dismisses. “Time to go.”

Jongdae whines. “But my legs are still blubber.”

“Ah, well, guess you’ll not be dashing off ahead anymore, will you?”

Minseok’s smile is wicked. Jongdae’s gape is speechless.

“You—you beast.”

“I lack a lead rope for my half-trained reindeer, but this’ll serve just as well, I think.” He presses his neatly folded outerwear against Jongdae’s chest. “Come on. Let’s move while the sun's still high. Someone wished to get to an extra minim, so we’ve lost time to make up for.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I’ve much to atone for, it’s true.”

Jongdae frowns even as Minseok’s smile widens. “You’ve nothing to atone for.”

“Ah, there’s always something. Dress, then you can argue with me as to what it is while we Walk.”

There’s nothing Jongdae can do in response to that except for sputter as Minseok laughs. He pulls on his clothes and takes up his staff, following Minseok’s lead to forcefully probe the snow ahead of each step. They establish a rhythm, each probing before alternate steps, until Jongdae’s staff plunges much farther than he’s expecting. He flails with his free arm, overbalanced, but Minseok hauls back on his shoulder, stabilizing him as Jongdae lifts his staff from the deceptive crust of snow.

“Put no weight behind it,” Minseok tsks. “Probe again—find the edges.”

They work in tandem to knock the bridge away from both edges of the crevasse, a much deeper one than that into which Jongdae fell, though also far narrower.

“Plant your staff on the far edge and step carefully across,” Minseok instructs, keeping a grip on Jongdae’s hood until both his feet are on the far side. “Go no further without probing—they sometimes run in twos or threes.”

Jongdae nods, probing carefully ahead of himself as he moves cautiously onwards. When he’s a few steps away from the edge, Minseok crosses the crevasse behind him, stepping up beside him once again and resuming their rhythmic test-step pattern. 

Jongdae breathes a sigh of relief when his staff sticks in spongy mud rather than thunking against ice beneath the snow.

“A few more paces, to be truly sure we’re off the glacier,” Minseok cautions.

But soon they’re once again walking normally, setting their staves periodically as they go. Minseok looks over at him and smiles, then lengthens his stride further, making Jongdae jog half a step before matching his pace. He reaches out his free hand and Jongdae takes it, feeling almost like they’re flying down the lychway after the previous tentative pace.

Flying toward Dominari on winged boots. Flying toward the prophecy’s end.

Resonance willing, it’ll only be the beginning for the pair of them.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

The shades are waiting for them on the last rise before Dominari. They’re spread out, drifting around like grazing sheep on the hillside, forming into a tight herd the closer Jongdae and Minseok get.

Once again, Jongdeok’s shade is at the head of the pack, the smaller shade of their mother hovering at his side. Jongdae’s heart nearly breaks with the need to hug them, to press his face against his big brother’s shoulder, to inhale his mother’s sweetvetch scent.

His throat is too thick to speak, so he merely inclines his head, seeing Minseok echo the movement out of the corner of his eye. Jongdae pulls apart the high collar of his parka, revealing the purple stone set against his throat with the others.

“Am I ready?”

Jongdeok’s shade sweeps a nebulous arm across his form, extending it toward the top of the ridge. An invitation?

“Will you come with me?”

The shade makes an X with umbral arms.

“Will you wait with Minseok? With his body?”

Now the shade’s arms form an O.

Jongdae smiles. “I trust his wards, but I’d feel better with my brother watching over my love.”

The shade drifts toward Minseok, gesturing toward him, then Jongdae. To Minseok, and then himself. He does this twice more, then holds out one indistinct arm to Minseok.

Minseok has no hesitation in lifting his own hand to meet it. Frost covers the surface of Minseok’s glove, then Jongdeok’s shade withdraws. He returns to the head of the huge cluster of shades, then they all seem to pause. As if they’re waiting.

Taking this as some sort of cue, Minseok follows the lychway to the crest of the hill. Jongdae hastens to his side, gasping a little as Dominari comes into view.

There are even more shades churning around the temple and throughout the town. As they watch, a few more spill into the town from the coast as if they’d just come from Gyun. They’re followed by another cluster of shades that pause at the edge of the town before retreating out of sight again.

Jongdae’s heart may as well have stopped. “Dad,” he chokes out. “Jihyo.”

But Minseok squeezes his hand, and when Jongdae looks at him through teary eyes, Minseok’s shaking his head. “Look at the western coast. And the eastern road to Dorus.”

More shadows are trickling in from those directions, as well as any other exit to the town. Each time a group of shades is right behind them, only to drift back once the shadows are incorporated into the seething mass.

“They’re herding them,” Jongdae realizes. “The shades have rounded them up. They’re keeping the shadows in Dominari.”

“Your father was right, after all,” Minseok says, giving Jongdae’s hand another squeeze. “Your brother was meant to aid the Spark. He’s simply doing it silently.”

“He always was a quiet guy,” Jongdae chuckles through a swallowed sob. “We used to joke that he’d spent so much time with the silenced he forgot he was allowed to talk.”

Minseok smiles at him. “People say that about Walkers, too.”

“Well, I’m glad I learned otherwise,” Jongdae says, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. “Let’s finish this, so Elyxion’s silent shields can dance instead of herd.”

“Let’s do.”

Minseok spreads out the sleeping furs right there on the lychway, warding the usual circle before calling Tan over and firmly instructing her to remain within it. Then he drops down on the furs, assuming the posture Jongin had showed them with knees crossed and head bowed. Minseok trills, and his spirit shimmers forth to hover at Jongdae’s side.

The other shades form a tight ring around them, right up against Minseok’s paced-out circle. Just as Jongdae worries that shades are unable to cross the wards, Jongdeok’s pushes forward over the line to face off with Minseok’s. They gesture at each other for a moment, then Minseok’s shade moves out of the circle, hovering over the lychway leading down to the ruins of the Temple of the Tongues.

“Now who’s impatient?” Jongdae chuckles, but he keens out the notes that render him all but dead and follows the spirit of his beloved toward the temple he once called home.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾


	9. Fermata

# Fermata  
࿄

It’s more than a little eerie to descend toward the collapsed temple along the path of the dead. The lychrow still stands, far enough away from the temple proper to have been spared from destruction if not from the creeping death that was the cause. There are the bodies to prove it.

They’re sunken heaps of outerwear sprawled along the lychway, Snow Walkers caught in a failed dash for freedom. Their faces are thankfully obscured by scarves and hoods at a brief glance, which is all Jongdae’s willing to give them. He’ll send them to the dance when this is over. He’ll send all of the fallen to the dance.

Minseok’s ethereal presence at his elbow is a comfort just as his physical self always is. Jongdae’s instinct is to chatter away at him to give his nerves an outlet, but he’s anxious that the shadows will somehow be alerted to the fact that a living body is among them. Now that he’s able to see them up close in the light of day, there’s no way he’d ever mistake a shadow for a shade.

They move nothing alike, for one thing. They’re hunched, skittery, movements jerky and sharp. And they’re more distinct, outlines smooth and clear, compressing to ooze around and between objects. They’re shaped generally like a human when not distorted, but one in a permanent half-crouch, knees bent and back rounded. Their spindly limbs are a little too long, bodies a little too round, necks nearly non-existent, three fingers and an opposing thumb ending in sharp points.

Despite this, none of the bodies in the open seem bloody. They’ve not shredded their victims or ripped them apart, but they’re no less dead for all that. Jongdae cringes at the thought that at least they’ll be relatively easy to transport to the re-lit tongues.

Jongdae moves slowly across the temple grounds, weaving his way through the more-frequent bodies until he’s standing in the only intact archway, the one through which he’d fled. He’s having trouble breathing, dizzy and desperate for air even though he’s forcing himself to take deep, calming breaths.

He staggers, dark spots blooming before his eyes. And then Minseok’s spirit is in front of him, crowding into Jongdae’s space, not frosty like Jongdeok’s shade but still unsettling enough that Jongdae moves reflexively backwards to pull away from the unnatural sensation. The motion becomes an unbalanced stagger, and Jongdae ends up on his back against the cobblestones.

His head lolls to the side, hazy vision met with a skeletal face way too close to his own. Jongdae squeaks and scrambles away, bumping into another form that crunches sickeningly at the impact. Swallowing more screams, Jongdae forces himself to his feet, vision clearing the farther he gets from the temple. He collapses at the edge of the temple grounds, Minseok’s spirit hovering anxiously over him. 

Minseok's spirit gestures sweepingly with nebulous arms, three, four times before Jongdae gets it. He sucks in enough air to whistle up a wind, pushing hard as he’d once done to dislodge the yellow stone from the Vortex. A mighty gust follows his tuneful exhale, pushing debris toward the temple—and hopefully sweeping away that invisible, leaking fuel that must’ve continued seeping more and more and more from the cleft in the rock from which the tongues had emerged.

“Thank you,” Jongdae pants. “Seokkie, you’re always saving me.”

Minseok’s spirit sets the ends of spectral arms against where the hips would be, the very picture of disapproval.

“I’m sorry,” Jongdae says. “I remember. I’ll be careful.”

Minseok's spirit relaxes a little, folding limbs and hovering low beside him as Jongdae fills his lungs with unsuffocating air. He whistles again on each exhale, breath remaining unstolen thanks to the set of stones around his throat.

As he’d feared, the sound does draw the attention of the shadows. Several approach, moving cautiously like Tan when she’s sneaking up on an “unaware” Minseok. But unlike the tundra cat, the shadows give Minseok’s spirit a wide berth, ringing Jongdae in hisses.

Jongdae keens again, then holds very still.

The shadows stop. In eerie unison, they tilt their heads.

Jongdae holds his breath.

The entire world seems to freeze for a moment. Then most of the shadows slink away in twos and threes. A few still seem focused on him as he slowly stands up, brushing himself off mostly to brush away the memory of how that corpse had  _ crunched. _

Minseok’s spirit straightens up with him, still hovering close but not close enough to feel the strange tingling nausea he’d experienced when the spirit had tried to move  _ through _ him. Perhaps it bothers the shadows to share space with the shades as well, hence their ability to herd them and keep them contained within Dominari.

Jongdae still has nightmares about the spiritwalk where he’d seen the shadows spreading like mold over Elyxion, sick and dreadworthy. Of them coming out of the tunnel from beneath the temple, following the survivors to Gyun to claim the remnants of his family. He’ll be forever grateful to his brother for gifting him with the sight of the shadows penned in instead. And for sending him to retrieve the stone that lets Jongdae move unrestricted among them.

“Seok, tell me if I start to look too alive, all right? Like, hold both your arms straight over your head,” Jongdae whispers, eyeing the lingering shadows warily as he does so. Three only tilt their heads at him, but one steps forward, claws outstretched.

Minseok’s spirit swoops between them, bullying the shadow back. It shrieks when Minseok’s ethereal limbs make contact with its outline, darting back away from Jongdae. Then the spirit lunges at the other lingering shadows, who scatter before Jongdae’s personal guard-spirit.

“Handy,” he says, smiling when Minseok’s spirit returns to his side. “Always looking after me.”

Minseok's spirit crosses arms over chest in clear censure.

“I know, I know. All right, let’s try this again with more blowing and less suffocating, shall we?”

Minseok's spirit hovers ahead of him as if waiting for him to catch up. With a laugh, Jongdae does.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

It’s frustrating as all bells to be unable to physically help Jongdae with anything, but Minseok tries not to grind his spiritual teeth as he watches Jongdae pick his way through the ruins of the temple by the lilted light of his staff. Instead, he concentrates on what he  _ can _ do to help, which includes signalling Jongdae to renew the keen and chasing off any shadows that get too curious about this moving, singing dead man.

It’s slow going, Jongdae blowing the invisible, choking fuel away frequently and strengthening himself with the melody to lift debris out of the way as needed. There are more and more shadows as they get closer to the center, and they seem to be drawn to the moonglobe, so there’s still a lot to keep Minseok busy. He concentrates on keeping his ward safe just as he’s always done, determined not to fail when they’re so close to success.

Jongdae must succeed. He  _ must. _ And Minseok will do everything he can to ensure it.

They’re barely inside the temple when it happens for the first time. Jongdae leans his staff against a pile of debris and lifts a massive stone up, only to immediately drop it again, cringing at the sickening sound when it re-impacts what lays beneath. Then Minseok has to hover helplessly while Jongdae’s skeletal face somehow vomits, heaving repeatedly before he drops to the ground, facing away from the stone and the puddle of sick.

He’s crying, tears running down the weathered planes of his skull, possibly the most heart-wrenching sight Minseok has ever witnessed. The dead weeping for the dead. And Minseok can do nothing but fold himself to hover lower, try to be some meager comfort in the face of this new horror.

“I knew her,” Jongdae sniffles, wiping his tears and snot away on his sleeves. “That pink jumper—it was new. A solstice gift. She was so proud of it. She was in the children’s choir. Only six, Seokkie. Bells. Poor little Bao.”

Saying the child’s name renews Jongdae’s tears, and the noise draws more shadows to hover closer, seeking prey. Minseok rushes them repeatedly, trying to give Jongdae a moment to compose himself, but eventually he has to put his arm against Jongdae’s knee, wincing at the way his beloved shies away from the contact.

But with Jongdae’s attention on him, Minseok can raise both arms above his head, signalling Jongdae to keen again, to shake off some of the shadows’ attention. As he does, Minseok thanks the Resonance for Jongdeok, for his strength of spirit, for the way he was able to send them to find the last stone, the real key to remaining safe.

The dead weep for the dead. The silenced protect the singer. And the dead shall avenge the dead, Jongdae heaving himself to his feet, whistling the air clear, and summoning the strength, mental as well as physical, to lift the impeding stone again. He glances down enough to avoid stepping on the child’s remains, then carefully lowers the stone back over the body, letting out a final choked sob at the still-disturbing sound.

“It’s only going to get worse, Seokkie,” he says softly. “What if I find my family? My—my mother…”

Minseok hates that he’s unable to tell Jongdae how strong he is, how proud Minseok is, how proud his mother would be, how grateful all of Elyxion would be if they knew exactly what their Spark was enduring for them. How much, how deeply he suffers so they never have to. That Elyxion might be cold and harsh but her children are warm and brave, that their savior walks this final path alone, that his bronze will alone keeps him from giving up, turning, fleeing, breaking down completely.

Minseok wishes he were capable of bardery, that he could somehow capture all of this in a new song, that he could replace cryptic prophecy with blatant celebration. Behold, the unextinguishable Spark! See his strength and his tears, his determination and love, his resolution and reverence as he uncovers more and more silenced, more and more empty shells of the shades that’ve become Elyxion’s shepherds. And for the sake of the shady herding dogs, Jongdae has become a winter wolf, fierce and faithful, never turning aside from his goal until he’s reached it.

Elyxion could have no greater hero.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

The sky has darkened to a mournful violet by the time Jongdae has reached the staircase that descends below the naos to the chamber of the silenced. Jongdae’s too wary to attempt to relight the Tongues from the upper floor, concerned that the invisible fuel will have filled the entire chamber, destroying not only the temple but the intact-but-empty buildings of the town below. If the temple’s to be rebuilt, shelter is needed.

And Jongdae’s determined to survive this, to return to his Seokkie, to hold him and weep for all that he’s lost, to hold him and laugh for all they’ve regained.

So he begins clearing the rubble from the marble staircase, grateful that at least no one should’ve been standing here when the roof began to fall. He’ll see those crushed bodies behind his eyelids for the rest of his life. This temporary reprieve from adding to his nightmares is more than welcome.

He lilts the moonglobe brighter, wedging his staff between two stones at the top of the staircase, letting illumination bathe the area he’s clearing. The light attracts more shadows, but he keens again before he renews the strength in his muscles, doing his best to remain ‘dead’ enough that Minseok’s spirit has the minimum of curious shadows to chase away.

Minseok. Jongdae would’ve never made it so far without him. He’d be one of those flattened figures, or he’d have frozen to death, or fallen to his doom, been eaten by wolves, bells, just flat-out given up. He’d have given up earlier without Minseok's spirit hovering at his side, looking after him, reminding him to stop mourning the long silenced or he’d become freshly silenced himself.

He’s starting to think that the Stave, not the Clef, is the true hero of Elyxion. How can a Clef stand without the Stave to prop it up? How can it have meaning without the lines that frame it, ground it, make it intelligible? If Jongdae succeeds in this task— _ when _ Jongdae succeeds—it’ll be because Minseok enabled it to happen. And in Dominari, at least, Jongdae will make sure everyone knows it.

That a Snow Walker, rumored to drag souls behind them into the bleak, had instead saved countless lives, those existing and those yet to be born, that would never be born without the ceaseless efforts of one who’d been thrown away so soon after his own birth. The prophecy’s selfless heart, indeed.

Clearing the stairwell is tedious and uncomfortable, muscles protected from strain by the melody but still resenting the overuse. Jongdae cannot wait to be finished, to be able to collapse into their sleeping furs, to let Minseok drain all the accumulated tension from his body with those hips, that smile. To simply be with him, to know that those he loves are safe, will stay safe, that the only hazards Elyxion holds are those of a natural origin, that all future suffering will be the result of miscalculations, misfortunes, misadventures and not insidious, malicious darkness shaped into walking nightmares.

Survival on Elyxion had always been a dangerous endeavor, but at least success had been possible. The victims of the shadows had never even had a chance.

Jongdae has no concern for how many horrors he must endure in the process. He’ll relight the Tongues of Life, transforming Elyxion from the land of the doomed to the Isle of the Blessed once again. He can do it. He can do anything, Minseok at his side and Resonance willing.

He knows Minseok would never abandon him. And he’s starting to suspect that his beloved’s pragmatic faith is true. Jongdae’s meant to do this. Therefore, he will.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Jongdae’s mood seems to improve while clearing the stairwell. Perhaps spending a few hours without encountering any silenced has bolstered him, perhaps the miner’s melody affects attitude as well, Minseok’s unsure. But he also cares not, merely happy if Jongdae is less melancholy.

He reminds Jongdae to keen when he returns to the top of the stairwell for his staff, holding the bright light at his shoulder, behind his field of vision just as Minseok had taught him, sending the light ahead without ruining his own ability to see with the too-bright spot dancing along the back of his eyes.

The room the staircase descends into is partially collapsed, ceiling having cracked along the narrow opening through which the Tongues must’ve once reached. Minseok had never realized the Tongues were so tall, somehow assuming they’d projected from the hillside at the height of a body length and a half. Evidently they’d been twice as majestic, reaching from what must be their actual origin, through the marble ceiling, and still towering over worshippers in the massive chamber above.

Jongdae whistles wind repeatedly, spending what feels like half an hour clearing the air, replacing any leaked fuel with something breathable and non-explosive. He’d learned that lesson well, it seems, and Minseok has no more ability to detect this dangerous fuel than Jongdae does. So he approves of how thoroughly Jongdae sweeps this chamber with wind before bending to the task of clearing the rubble away from the fissure carved into the marble floor.

They both startle when a shadow crawls up out of the fissure, followed by a few more, evidently called upward by the moonglobe they then rush toward. But Minseok swoops in, sending them shrieking for the stairwell, returning to Jongdae’s side in time to chase away three more.

Jongdae renews the keen, tucking the moonglobe under his arm in an apparent effort to diminish the light. But Minseok had seen the last trio try to flinch away from the light even as they moved toward it, so he holds his arms up in an X.

“Hide it not?” Jongdae asks, pulling the light out again.

Minseok makes upward gestures with both arms, trying to mimic a conductor asking for more volume, hoping it’s a signal Jongdae will quickly understand.

There’s a hiss from the fissure, but before Minseok can whirl around and face this new threat, Jongdae lilts at the top of his lungs.

Minseok has no physical eyeballs in this form but he’s still glad he’s facing away from Jongdae at the moment. The white marble walls around them reflect the blinding copper light, bouncing it in a way that reminds Minseok of the Hide at Dorus. And the shadows shriek, seeming to break apart like seafoam against a rocky shore as they emerge from the fissure.

Jongdae wedges the staff upright amidst the rubble, then hurries to clear the area around the fissure. He remembers to whistle the air clean frequently as he works so close to the source of the leaking fuel (and apparently, the leaking shadows).

As soon as the area is clear from floor to ceiling, leaving room for the Tongues to emerge into the ruins above, Jongdae points his hand at the fissure. He sings out the refrain softly, evidently intending to send only a small fireball into the black from which the shadows arise.

Except the fireball never even leaves his finger. As soon as the first lick of flame manifests, there’s a burst of flame from the fissure. It lasts the blink of an eye before the Tongues of Life are once again reaching neatly through the ceiling, adding a bright blue tint to the light still bathing the walls.

But in that blink of an eye, the Tongues had flared wide, engulfing the chamber in flame. So it’s not the Tongues that Minseok’s gaping at. It’s the burning figure of the Spark who’d ignited them.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Jongdae’s in agony. There’s a deafening whistle. Wind rushes sharply past, ripping the flames from his skin. Then the shanty rolls out in crashing waves that seem to reverberate for an instant and a lifetime, a staccato fermata, a single voice Resonating with itself a hundredfold in the space of a single shuddering breath. 

The pain is gone. And then it returns a thousandfold, when Jongdae looks up from his suddenly extinguished hands and realizes what Minseok has just done.

There’d been no one else in earshot to bear the pain. To share the lethal agony of the flames that would’ve surely consumed the Spark.

“Seok!” he wails, falling to his knees, hands still raised palm-up before his chest.

His summer gloves had burned completely away. Charred fur falls away from the rest of his body when his shins impact the floor, but Jongdae cares nothing about the state of his clothing. He’s not going to freeze to death this close to the Tongues. Even if he rather wishes to, knowing that the world he just saved is devoid of the one who’d helped him save it.

“No, Seokkie,” he sobs when Minseok’s spirit—Minseok’s  _ shade— _ hovers closer, balling up to hunker beside him. “How did you even— _ why?” _

Minseok’s shade keens. The memory of his wool-soft voice echoes through Jongdae’s head.

_ You know why. I cannot let you die. _

“I cannot live without you.”

_ You can. You will. I’ve not given my life for you to throw yours away. _

“But Seokkie,” Jongdae sobs. “I love you so much! You cannot just leave me!”

_ I love you, too. I’ll stay as long as I’m able. _

“No.” Jongdae shakes his head. “I’ll not trap you here out of selfishness. Of course I’ll send you… send you to the dance. Bells, Seokkie!”

Jongdae collapses into sobs, pressing his forehead against the scorched floor beneath him. Why?  _ Why _ must the Resonance reward his dedication with heartbreak? He’d never asked for  _ any _ of this, never asked for fame or glory, never asked to be the one every voice in Elyxion had been singing about for generations. He’d just wished for a little freedom, someone to call his own, and now he once again has neither.

He has neither, after knowing the joy of both. He’d be entirely unsurprised to learn he has nothing, that his father and sister had died on that lonely pile of rocks, that the Spark, now that his duty had been completed, was to become a martyr for future generations to sing about.

Minseok never should’ve saved him. Except that of course Minseok always would.

Jongdae sits back up, staring hopelessly at the shade of the man whose name seems to burn against the skin of his shoulder. Is this irony, that Jongdae would memorialize with a snowflake a man who’d burned in Jongdae’s stead? How had he managed to sing the shanty without a mouth?

The same way Jongdeok had keened for him. Because the need within their spirit had been so great. And there’s truly only one thing Jongdae can do to reward such steadfast love.

He wipes away fresh tears with shaking fingers. “I need to send them to the dance. To send all of you. My family. My—my precious, selfless love. Seokkie. My Seokkie, I’m going to miss you so clapping much.”

Minseok’s shade hovers close.

_ I told you, _ the memory of his voice echoes in Jongdae’s mind.  _ So long as you live, my heart will be alive. _

Jongdae manages to swallow the sodden knot of his grief. He nods weakly, hand going to the shreds of leather still covering his shoulder, pressing his palm over Minseok’s name. It’s inked deep into his heart as well,  _ Minseok, Minseok, Minseok _ with every beat. It hurts so much. It’ll hurt forever.

“Can I be selfish, and send you last?” he asks. “Will you stay by my side until this is truly over? There are still so many shadows—”

A shriek rips through Jongdae’s sentence and the Tongues flare a sickly green. Jongdae staggers back, retreating to the stairwell, suddenly determined to guard well the life his beloved had gifted him. More of his ruined clothing falls away, but he’s more concerned with the way the flames keep flashing green and the shrieking coming from above.

“What’s wrong with the Tongues? Are they failing again?”

Minseok’s shade flits up the stairwell, then returns six heartbeats later, just after yet another shriek-accompanied flare of green. 

_ All is well. Your brother’s flock feeds shadows to the Tongues. _

Jongdae cautiously climbs the stairwell, peeking his head into the ruins of the naos. A pair of shadows is skittering through the rubble, chased by a handful of shades. The shadows try to split up, breaking away to either side of the Tongues, but more shades cut them off, forcing them into the flames. The Tongues engulf them, turning green until the shrieks die away.

_ Spectrum, save us! _ Jongdae’s own voice echoes in his head, followed by the memory of Minseok’s throaty laugh.

Jongdae’s lips flicker into the shade of a smile as he lifts his eyes to the sky, the undulating ribbons of the song visible in the absence of the temple’s roof. It’s particularly bright, particularly colorful, and Jongdae lifts his fingers to his throat, running them over the set of seven colored stones.

“Spectrum, save us, indeed,” he murmurs before his face crumples again. “Why could the spectrum not have saved you, too?”

_ I’m content to have been allowed to love you, bright Chenny. And more than that, to have been loved so well in return. _

Minseok’s shade reaches out as if to caress Jongdae’s face. Jongdae closes teary eyes, bracing himself for the chill of the touch. But his eyes fly open when his stomach flips at the buzzing tingle against his cheek.

“Seokkie, you’re not dead.”

_ Not so long as you remember our love. _

“No, I mean, your body is  _ alive. _ Your touch—it’s not cold. You’re not a shade.”

Jongdae starts picking his way through the rubble, desperate to get to the ridge where Minseok’s body lies empty of spirit. Minseok must be more desperate, because suddenly his spirit zooms over Jongdae’s head, an ethereal blur against the aurora above.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Minseok inhales the sharp odor of decaying fish. His eyelids flutter open as rough moisture is dragged across his cheekbone. He blinks until his vision comes into focus, striped fur and eyes like the aurora behind tall, tufted ears.

“Tannie,” Minseok starts, closing eyes and mouth as the tundra cat licks him again. “Stop that. Your breath stinks.”

He shoves Tan’s head away from his face but wraps his arms around her neck as he sits up, pressing his nose into thick fur. Her earthy scent serves to ground him, and Minseok pulls it into his lungs greedily, leaving several tears in Tan’s pelt in return.

“I love you,” he tells the cat. “And Jongdae— _ Jongdae. _ How am I alive?”

This last question is directed at the shades of Jongdae’s mother and brother, hovering within the circle still formed by a large number of other shades.

The shanty echoes softly around him as if from countless, far-away mouths.

“You sang away my pain? You saved me?” More tears threaten, and Minseok’s glad of summer nights, still chill but above freezing, leaving him emotional without consequence.

_ There is no pain for us but that of loss, _ Jongdae’s voice echoes in his head, stilted as if words were being plucked from individual memories.  _ We would spare the Spark such grief. _

“Thank you,” Minseok says, with such fervence that the words Resonate through the night. 

The shades ripple in response. The ones circled around him start drifting down toward the temple, soon leaving him alone with the shades of Jongdae’s family.

“I’ll love him well for you,” Minseok promises them. “As will his father and sister.”

_ We know, _ echoes Jihyo’s voice.  _ Let them love you as well. _

“I’ll try,” Minseok chuckles.

The shades drift toward the ruined temple, then pause, turning back to him.

_ Your love awaits, _ Jongdae’s voice promises as his brother’s shade beckons.

Minseok lets a full smile part his lips for the first time in months. He grabs the pack with Jongdae’s spare clothes and shrugs it onto his shoulders, then takes up his staff. “My life awaits.”

He then follows the lychway toward the Tongues, trailed by his tundra cat and flanked by the pair of shades.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

For the second time since the shadows emerged, Jongdae stumbles out of the ruined temple he was born to serve. It’s even the same archway, the same spot he’d first met the man that’d become his heart’s true keeper. He lifts his gaze toward the lychrow and there he is, Jongdae’s Snow Walker, limned in lychlight, escorted by the enduring spirits of the family Jongdae had lost.

Jongdae’s got his own spectral escorts, a tiny contingent of achingly-small shades that ring him just as they had in life, when he’d been teaching the children’s choir to sing in three-part harmony. Now they keep stray shadows away from him, letting one of the living make his way through the temple-turned-sepulchre.

He knows the moment Minseok looks up and sees him standing there in front of the ruins, because he breaks into a run, Tan bouncing behind him, ethereal escorts flitting along at his sides. He’s grinning, and it seems the work of an instant to rush forward and press his own grin against him.

“I’m sorry,” they both say into each other’s necks. They pull back to frown at each other. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”

Then there’s nothing for it but to burst into childish giggles at their synchronization, at their reunion, at their success, at the way hope seems less like a stranger and more like an old friend.

They’re still clinging to each other when Jongdae finally manages to get ahold of himself, his last giggle almost a sob as he sees the shades of his family hovering near, the former junior choristers surrounding them.

“Thank you,” Jongdae says, feeling the words Resonate in his chest. “For helping us. For  _ saving _ us.”

_ How could we not? _ his mother’s voice echoes in his head.

“I’m sorry I failed to save you, too.”

_ We are at peace, _ the memory of Jongdeok’s voice nudges into his head.  _ We knew the old songs. We were meant to serve this way. _

Jongdae nods, squeezing Minseok tighter. He’d realized that someone would’ve needed to choreograph the actions of the shades, and who better than the one that used to send spirits to the dance? Their father had taught Jongdeok what he needed to know to help Jongdae, and help he had. But it’s still hard to fully accept.

“I’ll miss you,” he tells the shades of his family, releasing Minseok’s torso but keeping hold of his hand.

In response, they drift nearer, holding limbs up to rest, freezing, on each of Jongdae’s shoulders. They do the same to Minseok, who nods very seriously.

“Of course I will,” Minseok says. “I’d not let him suffer that.”

Then the shades drift off to join the others in rounding up stray shadows, leaving Minseok and Jongdae ringed by the smaller shades.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

“What happened?” Jongdae asks Minseok. “Did they say something to you? How could you hear them? I thought it was the stone—”

Minseok kisses Jongdae to stop the flow of questions. It’s just a brief meeting of lips, then Minseok pulls away to smile at his love and shrug the pack from his shoulders.

“Dress,” he commands. “I can see the chill reddening your cheeks. All four of them.”

Jongdae’s cheeks redden further at this, but he quickly shrugs out of his burned clothing and into his spares. “What would I do without you?” he asks, ducking his chin and looking at Minseok through lashes clumped by recent tears.

“You’d quickly learn to take care of yourself,” Minseok says, tossing the pack back over his shoulder. “But as long as you’ve got me, I’m happy to take care of you.”

“I’m keeping you forever.”

“I know. Now, come—let’s rest.”

Jongdae shakes his head. “We should help—send them to the dance—”

“Not yet,” Minseok says, tugging him along the lychway. “They’ve work to do. It seems they’re unable to do it very quickly, because too many at once might extinguish the Tongues again. I think that’s what happened—the shadows choked the Tongues when they poured out.”

It’s silent for a while. When Jongdae speaks again, his voice is very soft.

“Will it happen again?”

“I know not. But I’ll be vigilant.”

Jongdae huffs. “We should all be vigilant—if these things came up from the earth, Lydos must be wary. Perhaps Yon, too? And the others—well. We must all be alert.”

“Alertness is valuable,” Minseok agrees as they crest the rise. “But so is proper rest. You must be exhausted, Soundbow or no.”

Still unwilling to let go of Jongdae’s hand, Minseok tugs him over to their sleeping furs. Jongdae follows, kissing Minseok deeply, pushing him down onto the plush surface, murmuring declarations of love between desperate little half-sobs. Minseok holds him close, enjoys the reassurance they both need, that they’re alive, together, moving as one beneath the bright aurora in a dance as old as life itself.

Afterwards, Minseok simply watches Jongdae sleep, body still feeling rested after spending all day spiritwalking. Jongdae’s not seemed boyish to Minseok ever since Yon, but he sees an echo of that scared, grief-stricken boy tonight. Jongdae’s sorrow is great, but love is greater. His father and sister will share his sadness, the weight of their grief shared across all of their shoulders, and Yixing’s, and Minseok’s own, as much as possible.

To that end, Minseok replaces his body with one of his jumpers, letting Jongdae bury his sleeping face in soft wool instead of soft skin. He tucks him in carefully, then whistles for Tan.

“Guard him as you do me,” he instructs.

She settles on the furs next to Jongdae, tilting her head to rest it on her paw without her fangs getting in the way.

“Good girl, Tannie.” Minseok gives his companion a kiss between the ears, then takes up his staff once again and heads down to the temple.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

When Jongdae wakes up, he’s alone. For the first time in months, Minseok’s not pressed up against him, watching him sleep through hooded eyes.

His heart stops for a sickening moment when he remembers why. Had he only dreamt that Minseok survived? No, he must be alive—Jongdae never could’ve tucked himself in quite like this.

Minseok’s safe. Jongdae’s safe. The Tongues are lit.

He sits up, struggling a bit to free himself from the furs he’d been wrapped in. His bare chest protests the sudden chill against his skin but yes—there they are, the blue flames stabbing up from the rubble, defiant Tongues dancing against the bronze of the sunrise.

The Tongues are lit. And the shadows… are gone?

No, not quite. He can see little clots of movement, shades and shadows hard to distinguish at this distance, but it’s certainly not the stormy sea it’d been the night before.

Is Minseok down there, somewhere, too? Why is he not here with Jongdae?

He dresses quickly, catching up his staff and rising to his feet.

Tan rumbles in warning, and Jongdae looks all around, ready to burn the clappers off any shadow that thinks it’s standing between Jongdae and his beloved. But there’s nothing, no threat, even though Tan’s watching Jongdae intently with those eerie green eyes.

“Did you have a nightmare, too?” he asks.

He steps over to scratch her ears, smiling when she closes her eyes and leans into it, always sure he’s somehow able to support the weight of her entire massive head. But when he turns around and steps toward the temple, Tan rumbles again.

Jongdae looks over his shoulder at her, baffled.

Tan stares right back at him. 

Jongdae shrugs and takes a step, but Tan’s rumble this time is more of a growl. She stands up, and Jongdae suddenly gets it.

“Minseok told you to keep me here?”

He tests the theory by taking another step, and sure enough, she moves to intercept him, butting his chest with her forehead.

“All right, good girl, you did your job well. But now I’m going to find Minseok, all right?”

Tan tilts her head, tufted ears at full alert.

“Find… Minseok,” Jongdae says slowly, having no idea if there’s some sort of clef word to get the tundra cat to listen to him. Minseok always simply talks to Tan like she’s either a baby or a fellow person, never using specific commands that he can remember.

Tan blinks at him.

“Find Minseok,” Jongdae says again. “C’mon, pretty Tannie—let’s go find that sneaky person we adore.”

Tan shifts, turning her head down toward the temple, then back over to Jongdae.

“Is Minseok down there? Let’s go find him. I bet you can find him so quickly, we both stink of sweat and filth.”

Jongdae takes a step down the lychway. Tan takes a step with him. Jongdae takes two more steps, and so does Tan. Letting out a breath he’d not been aware of holding, Jongdae smiles at the tundra cat, relaxing into an easy lope with her padding silently beside him. She’s still eyeing him, which is a bit intimidating, but if she’d truly wished to stop him, she certainly could’ve. Perhaps Minseok had forbidden her from hurting him or something? Or perhaps she just misses Minseok, too.

Whatever the reason, it seems not to pass muster with the man himself, because Minseok looks rather unhappy to see either of them. They find him in the courtyard, hastily wrapping a bundle on the ground in… is that evenweave?

“Pair of unruly cats,” he says as he straightens up. “Neither of you are meant to be here.”

“We missed you,” Jongdae says, unable to resist pulling his beloved in for a tender kiss.

Minseok grumbles but responds, curving an arm around Jongdae’s waist. “I suppose there’s no chance of you going back to bed?”

“Not unless you come with me—and  _ stay _ with me, not just love me up all sleepy then leave me with a four-legged childminder.”

“What’re you doing down here, anyway? Did you sleep at all?”

Minseok still looks ridiculously good for a guy who’d, like Jongdae, not bathed in nearly two weeks while performing strenuous labor daily. But he has faint circles beneath his eyes, and his hair is standing up like he’s been running his fingers through it. Jongdae indulges in running his own through it, smoothing it back down.

“I’m only tired because of the melody,” Minseok says. “I may as well have slept all day yesterday.”

“The melody?” Jongdae peers over Minseok’s shoulder despite Minseok’s wince. “What’re you—oh, Seokkie.”

The scene tells the tale Minseok’s evidently reluctant to tell himself. But the huge fragment of marble, surface facing them stained, the irregular, flattish bundle on the ground wrapped in undyed evenweave.

“You’re sending them to the dance without me?”

“You needn’t take up this task as well, Chenny, not on top of everything else.”

Jongdae shakes his head. “I’ll not let you do this. At least, not alone.”

“It’s not as much hardship for me as it is for you. I’m used to gathering up the silenced.”

“Surely not like this!”

But Minseok only shrugs. “They were strangers to me, Dae. They’re only empty shells to my eyes, however broken.”

Jongdae feels like he should be crying, but he seems to be out of tears. “Seokkie. My selfless love, always looking after me. It’s so unfair—you should let me look after you sometimes, too.”

Minseok’s laugh is high and boyish. “Chenny, our Spark, you only saved the clapping world! Elyxion should be spoiling you for the rest of your life. Doing this for you is only the merest sliver of what you deserve.”

“Well, I can at least lift the stones for you,” Jongdae chuckles. “I’ll close my eyes until you tell me they’re wrapped—where did you get the wraps, anyway?”

“Your mother’s shade showed me,” Minseok says softly. “I think a lot of them were curtains, tablecloths, but some are proper shrouds.”

“Oh,” Jongdae says. Of course his mother would help.

“She, uh. Showed me where her shell was. And your brother led me to his.”

Jongdae’s throat is suddenly too tight. “You sent them?”

“Not yet. No. We thought you’d like to say goodbye. Perhaps your father and sister? But I’d not have let you—well. They’re wrapped and waiting in the room below.” 

Now Jongdae does manage a few tears. To be able to send his mother and brother to the dance with his father and sister at his side. To be able to remember them only as they were when they were whole and alive.

“Thank you, Seokkie.”

“Of course, my Dae.”

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

They wrap up and send off all the silenced they’ve cloth for at the temple, then walk down into the silent town. They go to the tailor first, carrying bolt after bolt back up to where it’s needed. When that’s not enough, they start going through homes, taking bedding from mattresses and closets.

“Not that one,” Jongdae says as Minseok steps up to a door. “Some of them are still alive. On Gyun.”

Nodding, Minseok moves to the next one, folding any undyed evenweave he sees into his pack before meeting Jongdae on the street again.

It takes them six days, plus two days to gather and bless fabric and oil, but eventually they’ve sent off all the silenced but Jongdae’s family. The shades are all gone, having joined the dance much to Jongdae’s relief. But it feels somehow emptier now, with not even echoes of the former inhabitants hovering around, pointing out where their crushed bodies lay, chasing the last of the shadows into the Tongues.

As an adult, Jongdae strides through the old transport tunnel much more quickly than a full day, leaving them with enough light to get all the way to Gyun with the tide in their favor. They’ve only to wait an hour for the last of it to drain away enough to bare the sandbar, and this time when a slight figure comes pelting down the causeway toward them, Minseok has no thoughts of interfering.

He’s shocked into speechless immobility when Jihyo throws herself against him instead of her brother.

“You made it! You made it and you kept ChenChen alive, I was so worried, so clapping worried—”

The rest of her babbling is unintelligible to Minseok because she launches herself at her brother, words muffled against his shoulder as he holds her tight, Jihyo’s boots a handspan from the sand. Minseok stands there awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot, grateful for the Grand High Cantor’s smile when he follows his daughter down the sandbar at a much more sedate pace, Healer Yixing at his side.

“So it’s done, then? The Tongues are relit?”

Minseok nods. “Your son… is truly amazing.”

The Grand High Cantor nods. “I know.”

“Are you well?” the healer asks, resting a hand on Minseok’s shoulder and ducking slightly to look into his face.

“Jongdae’s left leg was broken in at least two places about three weeks ago, I healed it but—”

“I was asking about  _ you, _ Walker Minseok,” Yixing laughs. “Jongdae… well. I’ve faith that he’d tell me about any hurts, even if he’d never complain to you. But you complain to no one, do you? I doubt you even know how.”

Minseok’s cheeks heat. “I’ve nothing whatsoever to complain about. The Tongues are lit, the shadows are gone, and Jongdae’s alive. What more could I possibly ask for?”

“To stay with me,” Jongdae says, his arm still around his sister’s shoulders. “Not just every few weeks when you arrive with a ward, but all the time.”

“I’ve a duty,” Minseok says, heart squeezing as it always does whenever this topic comes to mind. “I’m honor-bound to serve the silenced.”

“I know, and I’d never ask you to break from that duty. But, well. The temple needs someone to feed the Tongues. It used to be Jongdeok, but… well. You seem not to mind such a task, and it’s still serving the silenced, is it not?”

Minseok blinks. He’d already fed the tongues so many silenced, Jongdeok having shown him the hymnal wherein the chants to send off the dead were written. And Jongdae had gamely helped, but it clearly upset him to watch the flames turn flesh into energy, even though he’d seemed very satisfied whenever a shade followed that energy skyward.

“I…” Minseok starts. Is this truly the path his life’s meant to take?

_ “This is not your final movement, Walker Minseok. And even if the rest of a work has been a single rhythm, time signatures may change…”  _

_ “The Resonance gave him to you, just as his parents once surrendered him to us. He’s yours for as long as the Spark requires…”  _

_ “I’d be unsurprised if you ended up marching to a different beat when this verse of your life has been sung…” _

_ “There are loyalties stronger than duty, so we’ll see what Walker Minseok’s future truly holds…” _

It all seems so Resonant, except— 

“What about Tan?”

“What about her?”

“Well. She’s hardly a housepet.”

“We used to have a bunch of smaller temple cats,” Jongdae laughs, a little sadly since they’d found not a single one still there, either perished or gone feral, wandering elsewhere to survive. “Now we can have one big one instead.”

Minseok’s lips twitch at the thought of his companion sprawled out before the warmth of the eternal flames. “I think she’d like that. Perhaps with some excursions to the bleak now and then for exercise.”

“There—Tannie’s staying, so you’re staying too. It’s settled.”

Minseok finds it difficult to mind inspiring this much laughter with his inability to come up with a response. He even finds it fairly easy to join in. 

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

If there’s one thing Jongdae desires more then a belly full of food, it’s a long, hot bath. With Minseok. Naked, slippery, and relaxed.

So after sharing a meal with the ever-growing population of Gyun wherein he and Minseok were cheered many, many times, Jongdae drags his beloved off to the bathing hut, grinning at the hooting and catcalls that follow.

“I can undress myself,” Minseok laughs against Jongdae’s mouth.

“I’m undressing you,” Jongdae insists. “I’m taking care of you.”

“Chenny, there’s no need for that. If anything, I should be taking care of you.”

“Minseok. For more than a week, I’ve watched you do what I’m unable to, face what I shy away from, and I know you mind it not. I know you think I should basically be venerated forever like the ancestors, but, Seokkie. It was hard for me. To feel all but useless.”

He cradles Minseok’s beautiful face in both hands. “Seok. My selfless, stoic Seok. Right now, you can take care of me by letting me take care of you.”

Minseok heaves a beleaguered sigh. “That’s an entirely unfair tactic.”

“Is it working?”

“Yes,” Minseok huffs. “But in revenge, I’m going to look at you adoringly like you always do whenever I do something to take care of you.”

“Excellent.”

Whether Minseok seems to know it or not, he looks at Jongdae like that all the time, anyway. So it’s no kind of punishment to feel those pretty, feline eyes on him as he methodically removes Minseok’s clothes, folding them and setting them carefully aside the way his tidy lover prefers. Minseok smiles at this, smiles as Jongdae prods him toward the pool, and smiles as Jongdae removes his own clothing, showing off a little before joining him in the warm water.

“My Dae, you’re gorgeous. So fortunate to get to put my hands all over you.”

The heat in Minseok’s eyes is enough to have Jongdae well on the way to hard, and the hungry kisses they share only advance the condition.

“Enough,” Jongdae finally has to say, pulling away and laughing at Minseok’s pout. “Clean first—are you not usually the one saying this to me?”

“If you’re taking care of me like I usually do for you, then I’m taking your usual role.”

“And what’s that?”

“Impatient. Greedy for affection and attention, fond of praise and vocal about providing it, and loud.”

Jongdae laughs, an element of self-doubt crawling up his spine. “Am I truly such a bad lover? You always tell me you’re well satisfied.”

“You’re an excellent lover… now.”

“Now?”

“Yes. I’ve trained you well. You do everything exactly the way I like it best.”

“Walkers are evidently good at training all their companions.”

“We certainly try, anyway.”

Jongdae leans in to kiss that smirk from Minseok’s lips.

Minseok’s always an easygoing partner, always content to let Jongdae call the shots, happy enough to find pleasure in whatever way Jongdae initiates. In the beginning it’d felt a little sour, that Minseok was so grateful to have Jongdae’s attention that he’d take whatever was offered like a starving man might devour scraps, but Jongdae truly gets it now. Minseok’s grateful, all right, but not to Jongdae. Minseok’s grateful to the Resonance for allowing him to love and be loved, and he’s genuinely not too picky about the form that happens to take.

Oh, he has preferences. He’d not been exaggerating too much when he said he’d trained Jongdae well. He’d gently guided him so as to make the experience pleasurable rather than potentially painful, demonstrated things with fingers and mouth that made Jongdae sure to reproduce the result for the man he adores.

And Jongdae uses several of those techniques now, following soapy hands with bruising lips, happy to claim his magnificent lover. And Minseok simply lounges against the fine gravel incline of the pool and lets him, lusty little hums letting Jongdae know that he’s doing a good job at taking care of the man who never stops taking care of him.

The noises Minseok makes when Jongdae washes his hair are enough to undo anyone, but Jongdae manages to suppress his own need and focus on Minseok’s. He washes certain body parts more thoroughly than others, and by the time he deems Minseok properly clean, he’s managed to get him to actually  _ mewl _ at least twice.

“You’re stopping? Why. Hands? Dae.”

This string of words is enough for a feeling of triumph to flood Jongdae’s veins alongside the throbbing lust he’s doing his best to ignore.

“I need to wash myself, too, Seok,” he says, dodging Minseok’s glazed-eye attempt to pull him back in.

He then proceeds to wash himself as erotically as possible, dancing just out of reach while Minseok almost  _ whines. _

“You’re truly impersonating me this time, huh?” he laughs.

“You are entirely frustrating. Come here and take care of me properly.”

“Yep—impatient, greedy, though that’s rather the opposite of praise.”

“I already said you’re gorgeous. You think that’s changed since we entered this pool?”

Jongdae laughs.

“Besides, Chenny, you’re meant to be praising me.”

“You get all squirmy and uncomfortable when I praise you.”

“Well, stop praising me for big impressive things!”

Jongdae’s eyes drop to Minseok’s lap. “What if I like to?”

Minseok’s chuckle is fond and frustrated. “Dae! You’re clean, you’re simply fondling yourself now. Come. Here.”

Entirely unrepentant, Jongdae obeys anyway. Minseok’s arms lock around him, biceps and chest flexed deliciously to keep him in place. Minseok makes a low, contented noise in the back of his throat.

“My beloved certainly seems to need a lot of taking care of,” Jongdae observes, rolling his hips against the thick arousal beneath him.

“This was your idea.”

“And it was a brilliant one.” He rolls his hips again, enjoying the throaty moan this elicits. “My Seokkie. You’re perfect—no arguments. Perfect  _ for me.” _

“I… will accept that. Because I’m certainly not letting anyone else take my place.”

“Good. I’m not properly trained for anyone else.”

“No,” Minseok says. “Only for me. Only mine. Ah, Chenny!”

Jongdae giggles around his mouthful of skin. Minseok’s so sensitive up under his jawline, it always makes him squirm so delightfully and Jongdae suddenly realizes he’s not going to even get himself inside Minseok if he keeps this up.

“How would you have it, Seokkie?” he murmurs against Minseok’s neck. “I’m taking care of you, so tell me what you’d like.”

“I’m happy with whatever you—”

“No. You decide.”

“Then… ride me again. In this warm place, where I can watch you, watch those abs and thighs work to make me feel good and see how hard I make you.”

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

Nothing in Minseok’s entire life has ever felt better than this. He’d not even been aware it was possible to feel this good. He has his Jongdae bouncing in his lap, riding him like a runaway reindeer, alive and sparkling and so very, very  _ warm. _ It’s amazing to be inside him, to be beside him, to be facing a life together, to see all the warm nights and sweet kisses laid out before him, a future that seems not only possible but Resonant.

Jongdae’s voice is certainly Resonant, making the water fizz around them, making Minseok’s blood fizz with it, his climax pulled to the surface even as he wraps an oil-slick hand around Jongdae’s arousal. And Jongdae sings, blends his moan with Minseok's as they pulse together, pleasure, breath, heartbeat.

“You truly love me,” Minseok murmurs against Jongdae’s cheekbone. The words feel too big for his mouth. His heart feels too big for his chest.

“Of course I love you,” Jongdae chuckles, breathy and fond. “You’re impossible not to love.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m yours.”

“Yes,” Minseok says, wrapping his arms tighter around the brilliant spark in his arms. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

“Always.”

“Always.”

Always is a long time, but that’s all right—Minseok has time. A new time signature, a new beat, a new melody that harmonizes with the old. He has duties to see to first, lychways to walk one last time, news to deliver, fellows to inform. Soon to be former fellows, when Minseok takes up his new duties.

Minseok was given up for the dead. And he’ll serve them with a dutiful spirit as he always has. But he’ll take on more duties, those to assist and inspire the living, those to keep his love and his family comfortable. They’re Minseok’s family, now, too. He’ll do his best to be a good partner to Jongdae in the temple instead of in the bleak, a good son for the Grand High Cantor to be proud of, a good brother for Jihyo to tease.

So it’s with a content, determined heart that Minseok settles in their sleeping furs with his love, wedged tight between their family members, pressed close despite the lack of bite in the summer night. Some chills are felt in the heart rather than the skin, but surrounded by this much warmth, even a glacier would thaw.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

It takes several trips to bring everything from Gyun back to Dominari, to reclaim homes left vacant for half a year, and to finally bring the elders and children in a long, slow parade lasting from dawn to dusk, almost twenty hours. And in the soft embrace of the shortest night, Jongdae and his family say goodbye to their fallen members, waiting for them in the blue-lit chamber of the silenced below the temple ruins.

“Joohyun,” his father sobs when he sees the indistinct figures hovering by the white-wrapped forms. “My love. And Jongdeok, my precious son.”

It breaks Jongdae’s chest in half to see his father cry, to hear Jihyo wail, to know he can do nothing but stand there with a hand on each of them, to know that no shanty could’ve saved them even if he’d known to sing it. But his heart’s kept from shattering by Minseok’s embrace, the Stave still propping up the Clef.

Yixing had descended the staircase with them but now hovers at the bottom step, obviously worried he’s intruding on a moment not meant for him. But before Jongdae can call out to him, assure him he’s welcome, that his father, his sister need all the support they can get, the smaller shade flits over to the astonished healer.

An echo of the shanty seems to sound in the back of Jongdae’s head. Then his mother’s shade drifts back to his father, and the shanty echoes again. Yixing blinks when the shade is in front of him again, holding an arm out toward Jongdae’s father.

“She’d like you to heal him,” Jongdae realizes. “Not with the shanty, of course.”

His mother’s shade drifts in front of Jongdae, the ends of cold limbs cradling his face.

“A burden shared is a burden eased,” Minseok says softly. “Shanty or no.” He flinches not when the shade touches his face as well.

Then his mother’s shade touches the daughter her body bore, the man her heart once beat for. She lingers for a moment with Jongdae’s father, then drifts toward the flame, holding an arm out toward the taller shade.

Jongdeok’s shade touches shoulders rather than faces, lingering for one last sniffled goodbye before floating to hover beside the shade of his mother. They wait, gently expectant, while Minseok chants the dirge, annoints the evenweave-wrapped bodies with thrice-blessed oil, and reverently feeds them to the tongues. Jongdae keeps his eyes on the gap in the ceiling, watching the shades rise beyond the blue flames to the shimmering spectrum of the song of the stars. At last, they’ll join the dance. They’ll be at peace.

And someday, Jongdae will be, too.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

It’s entirely the opposite direction from Locris, but Minseok sets off for Yon first. He’ll return one last time to his fellows, to High Cantor Leeteuk, to let the Walkers know their services are sorely needed and they’ve a destination once again. But first Minseok will serve the living, ensuring Dominari is provided with the resources they need to restart their economy and therefore enrich that of Elyxion once again.

It’s both harmonic and dissonant for Minseok to be Walking the lychway again with only Tan at his side. In summer, he has no need for her to sleep close, but he still misses the warm body usually pressed against him while he sleeps. And the warm smile that goes with it, the warm heart that powers it, the warm spark that may have flickered but had never gone out.

Minseok had succeeded in looking after his charge. And he’ll look after him again.

The High Cantor’s boy recognizes him right away, bringing Minseok down into the Vessel without even stopping at the lychrow first.

“Walker Minseok,” the High Cantor greets. “I must admit I expected you sooner. But the Resonance works in its own time signature, of course—how goes the restoration of Dominari?”

“Jongdae labored hard to reclaim it from the shadows. But there were survivors, including his father and his sister, and they labor together now.”

Tears spring to the High Cantor’s eyes. “Junmyeon’s alive? And their little girl?”

Minseok nods. 

“Resonance be praised!”

Minseok endures the squeezing hug without complaint. “You said Jongdae could ask anything of you.”

“Of course—how can I help? How can  _ we _ help? Yon will do what’s needed to restore our sister settlement.”

“The settlement’s intact, but the temple is rubble. And their bells fell from the tower—they need to be reforged.”

The High Cantor nods vigorously. “Most of them were forged at Yon initially—there are notes to their specifications in the foundry log. We can melt them down and recast them, ready to ring Resonant again.” He frowns. “I’ll have to draw up plans to reforge the treble, though. That was the original ship’s bell, so while I do have notes, the exact casting information was never recorded.”

“The smallest bell?” Minseok asks.

The High Cantor nods.

“That one’s not as damaged—it seems to’ve been thrown clear, likely to land in a snowdrift that cushioned the fall. It’s a bit more oval than round, now, though, and Jongdae says the note’s wrong.”

The High Cantor of the Blood smiles, that boyish, toothy grin. “Well. I once retuned Dominari’s Tenor. I’ll be honored to do the same for Dominari’s treble. For Dominari’s namesake, so she may ring out over the Tongues once more.”

The notes must be very helpful, because it’s only a few days after Minseok’s return to Dominari that the High Cantor of the Blood arrives to much fanfare. The Grand Temple of the Tongues had changed an astonishing amount in the seven weeks Minseok had been away, most of the rubble cleared off to one side, the lone standing archway clean and waiting for stonework to surround it again. The High Cantor of the Hide had arrived in Minseok’s absence, bringing with him scrolls that evidently detailed the construction of the temple just as the High Cantor of the Blood’s ancient texts had detailed the creation of the bells.

The pair of High Cantors has enough energy for an entire settlement, and together they quickly get the rebuilding underway. Their boisterous attitudes help to lift the mood of Dominari’s survivors, somehow both respectful of the slain and yet playful and encouraging.

Less than a year after the temple had fallen—a mere five months from Dominari’s reclamation—the Grand Temple stands proudly again, raised from the rubble by determination and Resonance. Minseok adds bellringing to his duties, taking Jongdeok’s position in this task as well. It’s serious work, but Minseok enjoys it, enjoys being one part of a Resonant whole.

He supposes everyone’s part of a Resonant whole whether they realize it or not, whether they spend their hours alone or with a crowd, whether their labor benefits the silenced or the singing. But Minseok can feel his place in it now, knows he’s not alone, not leastwise because he wakes up tangled with his love every morning, trades sleepy kisses, traces the lines of his name on Jongdae’s skin before he gets up to assume his now-retired father’s duties.

Minseok usually sleeps for a few more hours, having a more nocturnal schedule as the one who sends off the silenced. Tan generally wakes him around midmorning to find the official temple cat something bigger than wee rodents to eat. Luckily, she’s taken well to a diet heavy on walrus and seal rather than reindeer and muskox.

She’s entirely spoiled by the townsfolk, having endeared herself to them on the journey back from Gyun. The children love making her toys out of various and sundry, bits of walrus-hide cord tied to seabird feathers, scrap-leather models of seals drug across the temple floor by more cording.

They delight in playing with Minseok, too, including him easily in their games with his companion as if it's natural for so much life to scamper around the caretaker of the dead. The orphans in particular are rather attached to Minseok. There are a handful of children who'd survived the shadows without their parents, now being raised in the temple under Jongdae's father's guidance but often looking to Minseok and his companion for care and comfort. He's incredibly honored to be allowed to provide it, incredibly protective of these young lives entrusted to the temple wherein he and Tan reside. All of the children know not to get too close to Tan’s fangs or claws, but Minseok’s relieved his companion shows no inclination to hunt the children themselves instead of the toys they make for her. 

“She knows people are not food,” Jongdae had laughed when Minseok had expressed his worries. “Did she not guard your charges for over a decade? She knows what scents she’s meant to protect and which she’s allowed to devour.”

So the only thing devouring human flesh at Dominari are the Tongues, aided in their task by a former Walker who now finds himself rather stationary. He takes Tan for long walks in the bleak, sometimes even overnight, only himself, his companion, and the song of the stars above him.

But his home is always waiting for him, warm and welcoming, sweet and smiling, and to his heart’s true home Minseok always returns.

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾

It hurts the first time Minseok crawls into bed with chilly toes.

He tries to be his usual sneaky self, but Jongdae instinctively rolls towards him, automatically twines around him, then freezes himself when his feet find Minseok's. They're way warmer than Jongdeok's had ever been, but still colder than Jongdae's sock-clad ones and then Jongdae’s once again sobbing against Minseok's shoulder.

Minseok, as always, merely wraps him in strong arms and holds him tight, presses kisses against his hair, makes no complaint about Jongdae's tears and snot against his skin. Jongdae loves him even more for it, but hates being glued to Minseok with any bodily fluids, so he peels himself away to break the ice on the ewer and pour out some frigid water into the washbasin to splash his face with.

"No apologies," Minseok mumbles sleepily when Jongdae crawls back into bed beside him. 

So Jongdae lets his self-conscious words die on his tongue and his embarrassment die in his gut, just cuddling close and feeling everything that had overwhelmed him.

He misses Jongdeok. He always will. But Jongdeok approved of Minseok, had wished Jongdae to be taken care of, had ceded his career to the man Jongdae adores. Jongdeok would be pleased. So Jongdae tries to find his way to contentment.

In the morning, Jongdae wakes his love with kisses, moving his lips in tiny hops from pointed chin to soft cheeks that bunch up beneath the attention. 

"I'll never tire of this," Minseok sighs. "Truly, my life has become a waking dream."

And Jongdae can only smile against his beloved's skin. For only a year ago, his own life was a waking nightmare, and the following events seem so distant, like a dream that slips from memory upon waking. 

Had it truly been Jongdae who'd flung massive balls of fire with a simple strain? Who'd coaxed a stone to shine bright as daylight with only a lilt? Who'd walked enshrouded as the dead, burned like the dead, yet survives hand in hand with the Walker that always chooses life?

Had there ever truly been creeping shadows slinking over the land?

There must’ve been, for there are shadows on Jongdae's heart even still.

They linger in the scent of the sacred oils used to burn the dead, in the cantata now sung by overlapping soprano and tenor instead of by a lone alto. In the empty risers behind the tiny children's chorale, and the vast space surrounding the congregation that gathers again in the naos to stand fast against the darkness, to call the sun back into the sky with a triple peal of bells and a tenth of the voices lifted in song.

But there are no shadows in the voices themselves, few but strong, hope and light ringing out defiant of the darkness. There’s no dissonance in the first toll of the retuned tenor, rung boldly by one virtuous, selfless heart standing in for another. There’s no dissonance in the voice of the young Grand High Cantor of the Supreme resonance as he leads the grand symphonic, note-perfect, in a tone as pure as his heart.

_ “The hour before dawn is the coldest, _ _  
_ _ But stars only shine in the dark. _ __  
_ In the bleak, hope must ring out the boldest. _ _  
_ _ Let nothing extinguish the spark!” _

⁽𒀭❨𒀭❨𒀭(𒀭)𒀭❩𒀭❩𒀭⁾


End file.
